


Renegade

by echo_grace



Series: 3Rs verse [3]
Category: Tron (1982), Tron (Movies), Tron - All Media Types, Tron: Legacy (2010), Tron: Uprising
Genre: Flirting with Romance?, Found Family, Gen, Let's Play the Pop Culture Game!, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-03-08 06:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 60,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13452675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echo_grace/pseuds/echo_grace
Summary: It's been twenty years since he and Alan fell into the Grid after Dad . . .Surely twenty years is patience enough, Sam decides.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here begins what may or may not be Part 3!
> 
> If there are any Tron: Uprising experts/fans reading, can I pick your brain(s)? I need to get a better sense of the 'verse and characters, but haven't been able to watch the show, yet.

**Prologue**

            Twenty years have come and gone since their Grid-side adventure. If not for Quorra’s sheer alien existence, he might’ve let Dad’s increasing confusion and Roy’s constant skepticism about the Grid being a real place convince him it had all been a dream, or something. Lora, weirdly enough, had been the first to believe them completely.

            _Maybe ‘cause it explained how Alan **dis** appeared when Dad **re** appeared_, he thinks, eyeing the faded Flynn’s Arcade sign before the traffic releases him to roll up onto the sidewalk.

            There’s nothing particularly different about this day, Sam thinks as he pushes down his kickstand long enough to unlock the front of the arcade and roll his motorcycle inside. He relocks the doors, pulls off his helmet, and flips the breaker, wincing as _My Heart Will Go On_ screeches its way back on track in the jukebox. Thankfully, the song’s almost over already, its Irish flute quickly fading under the true ambience of the room.

 _Note to Self: update the LPs again_ , he thinks before heading straight to the _TRON_ game hiding the stairwell to Dad’s old secret office. _And don’t let Quorra choose ‘em all this time_ , he adds with an eyeroll as _Kissed by a Rose_ starts up.

            There’s nothing different, he muses, but there’s a strange prickling under his skin that’s left him increasingly restless over the last few days. He has no plans to do anything different from his periodic check-in and maintenance of the Grid computer. Sam has no expectation – not even a _hope_ , really – that Alan might be in the office when he walks in, and yet . . . something in his gut tells him he’s on the cusp of change.

            He refreshes the flashlight, adds his latest note to the diary of Welcome Back letters he began a couple years after Dad gave up, then sits down at the desk to see what, if anything, has happened since the last diagnostic he ran.

            Though he doesn’t really need to – it’s been, what, three, four months since he was last here? – Sam blows, then wipes the touchscreen free of dust with one arm, waking the computer from its doze.

            _02:03 min to Aperture Clearance_ , the computer reads.

            Huh. Lucky bit of timing there . . .

            The prickling under his skin becomes a shiver of excitement as he watches the countdown, a crazy idea coming to the forefront of his mind. He could . . .

            _01:15 min to Aperture Clearance._

            Not letting himself think it through too much, Sam yanks his phone out and shoots a warning text to Quorra, Roy, and Lora – and, after a brief hesitation, adds Dad to the list, too.

            _00:30 seconds_

            He hits SEND, sets the phone aside, and braces himself against the desk with a deep breath as he hears the laser power up behind him.

_5_

_4_

_3_

_Here goes noth-_

*  *  *  *  *

            The jolt is pretty much the same – maybe even a little more jarring, since he doesn’t have someone else shielding him, this time – but the sudden pressure of being underwater is the real shock to his system. Sam can only thank his training and the air already in his lungs for preventing him from taking an instinctive gasp for air that doesn’t exist.

            He still flails briefly, but then stills, trying to feel out where his buoyancy would naturally take him. When that doesn’t work fast enough, he releases a few tiny bubbles of air, and chases them towards the surface.

            His lungs are screaming by the time he breaks through. He gasps, pants, coughs a couple times, then orients and swims to the nearest shoreline.

            He might hear someone scream as he stumbles his way onto dry land, but he’s too focused on catching his breath and calming his pounding heart to really notice.

            He’s just about ready to sit up and see where he is – realize what he’s done – when pain shoots through his shoulder. Any latent doubts he might’ve had about his childhood visit to the Grid flee when he jerks up to see a masked figure in red-lit armor standing over him with a beam katana pointed at his face.

            “Aw, hell,” Sam says, voice still rough with strain. He flops onto his back and raises his wrists for handcuffs (or whatever equivalent they have here), and says, “Take me to your leader.”

 


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the Games begin . . .

**Chapter 1**

            Quorra’s still at work when the text comes through. It’s right about the usual time when Sam starts texting her stupid or crazy things to do over the weekend, so it takes a couple read-throughs before what Sam’s saying really _clicks_.

            “You . . . _dumbass_ , Sam-I-Am,” she tells her phone before she whips into action. With a quick glance through her office windows to make sure no one’s looking, Quorra presses her hand to her laptop and tells her programs to find a good stopping point, then save and shut down for the weekend. She barely waits for the acknowledgement before pulling away and closing it up. A slight, sizzling weight like static electricity develops in the air of her office as she pulls out her coat. “Sam’s jumped back into the Grid to look for Alan,” she mutters to Tron Senior, shrugging into it. “I’ve gotta get to the arcade, see if I can figure out what launched this latest hare-brained scheme. Might even have to go in after him –” Her phone rings, and a chill races through her as she reads the caller ID. “Might need you to slow Dad down, if you get a chance. Be careful, though. If Sam put him on the text list, he’s prob’ly even closer to ballistic than he normally is on a Friday.” A faint acknowledgement and _Be Safe_ lingers in the air as the weight pulls away – and she nearly rams into Eddie Dillinger with his hands full of Chinese takeout as she yanks the door open.

            “Crap – shi- Sorry, Eddie, I have to go. Sam’s pulled a stunt that could get him killed. We’ll have to pick up on Monday.”

            “Y’know, he might grow some brains if you quit rescuing him every time he does something stupid –”

            Quorra huffs a breathless laugh as she charges down the hall towards the elevators. “In about any other situation, I might agree with you. See you later!”

            She lets the call go to voicemail.

*  *  *  *  *

            Sam’s the last of about a dozen Programs shoved onto a nearby Recognizer. He watches his two guards lock into their caches; waits for the Recognizer to rise and begin flying before turning to the Program next to him. “Hey, man. You know any Programs na- –”

            The Program turns and snarls at him, revealing a full quarter of his face is missing.

            _Shit, you’re an Iso_ , Sam almost blurts out as he flinches back, but sheer surprise helps him swallow it down. He’s not gonna put any of Quorra’s original family in further danger, if he can help it.

            . . . Which leaves him staring at the city flying under his feet, at a loss for what to do and unwilling to risk drawing the guards’ attention just yet. He shivers against the chilly wind drying his clothes and idly listens to another Program whimpering and muttering to himself further down the line, half-wondering if he might’ve signed his death certificate this time.

            “Rogan’s rarely the friendliest of Programs on a good day,” the Program on Sam’s right murmurs a minute later, then snorts to himself. “And this is very much _not_ a good day.”

            Sam turns to see a guy maybe five years younger than him, sporting spikey dark Punk hair and Goth-black lined eyes. “Who’re you?” he asked.

            “Jarrex. Who’re you looking for?”

            “A Security Program named Tron. Or Ram, if he’s busy.”

            Jarrex’s open, friendly expression drops off his face, leaving it blank. “Dangerous names to speak, especially in this corner of the Grid.” His eyes narrow slightly as he glances over Sam and tilts his head. “Why’re you looking for them?”

            _Does that mean they're still alive?_ Sam tries to shrug, but the restraints on his arms don’t allow for much upper-body movement. “I’m supposed to find ‘em,” he says, trying to make it come off as an assignment. If the two most User-friendly Programs’ names shouldn’t be uttered around here, his goal should probably stay vague until he’s in friendlier territory.

            “Are you part of the Renegade’s crew?” Jarrex asks, eyeing Sam’s clothes a second time.

            “SILENCE OR DIE,” the nearest guard commands before Sam can answer.

            They both straighten in response. Even the whimper-er shuts up for a little bit, only to break down into a sobbing mantra of “Not the Games, not the Games” seconds later.

             The guards don’t seem bothered by that, though, so Sam catches Jarrex’s eye again and shakes his head minutely, hoping to convey both the negative to the question and his unfamiliarity with the reference.

            Jarrex’s mouth tightens, suspicion growing in his body language as he leans away.

            _Damn it_ , Sam thinks. _Made and lost a friend in one two-minute conversation – a record, even for me._ Sam sighs, resigned to go it alone for a little while longer.

            He goes back to watching the scenery, only to realize they must be closing in on their destination: what looks like an empty parking lot surrounding a triangular sports arena. On impulse, he grabs the Programs’ hands to either side of him (well, the Iso’s wrist, since Rogan’s is in a fist) and wills power into them as their Recognizer slows to a hover.

            Jarrex gasps softly; Sam flicks a glance at their guards for a reaction before checking on him.

            The Program’s circuits are glowing brighter, the faint bluish tinge turning to a very-definite green as he turns shiny eyes on Sam and grins at him. Then Jarrex squeezes his hand, and Sam could swear he hears the Program whisper _Greetings, User_ at him, though Jarrex’s mouth doesn’t move.

            His mouth quirks as he squeezes back, adding a silent request to _Pass it on_ as their section of the Recognizer lowers to the ground. Jarrex immediately grabs the next hand over, and that Program’s circuits start brightening, too.

            Sam looks to Rogan, who’s slower to move – probably due to the damage he’s already struggling with – but reaches out to spread the power, all the same.

            It’s a Program short of the whimper-er when a new guard directs him to the Games. The whimper-er tries to protest, even begs as he’s released from his restraints and dragged from the Recognizer. (Sam bites back a curse as the line breaks.) The guard completely ignores him, focusing instead on the Program flushing with new power.

            _Crap_ , Sam thinks, and leans forward as far as he can. “Hey, you know the boss around here?” he yells, trying to cover her and ignoring Jarrex’s disapproving hiss and weak attempts to tug him back. “I’m looking for a couple Programs, maybe you’ve heard of ‘em –”

            “GAMES,” the guard shouts, pointing at him without looking away from the other Program.

            _Double-crap_ , Sam thinks as he huffs and says, “Ugh, _rude_. You didn’t even let me finish what I was saying!” as his bonds are release and two more guards pull him away. “Clearly you’re just a peon – can you even say more than two words or are you too stupid?”

            The guard says something to that Program and moves on up the line like Sam doesn’t exist anymore. Sam opens his mouth for more insults, only to be distracted when the whimper-er breaks free of his guards and screams something ( _“RELEASE ME”? Isn’t that an Evanescence song?_ ) before he jumps down a hole.

            A shattering sound, and the guards chasing him pause at the edge of the hole, then turn and walk back as something clamps around Sam’s feet again.

            _He’s dead_ , Sam realizes, and turns horrified eyes to Jarrex, who stares back at him. _That Program just committed **suicide** , and no one’s_ –

            The giant hexagon he’s tied to plunges down, shoving every organ in Sam’s body _up_ about six inches until it slows to a smooth stop on a dais who-knows how many floors below the surface.

            Sam lets out a breath and takes another one in, mentally setting the suicide aside as he looks around a room filled with shades of gray. Not even the white lighting is able to compete, weak and washed-out as it is.

            The hair on the back of Sam’s neck prickles, unease enveloping him as he realizes his dark clothing makes him the blackest, most vulnerable spot in the entire room. With a glance around to make sure nothing’s moving, Sam bends over and starts pulling at his shackles, looking for a weak point.

            Something hisses and clicks. He stills.

            More clicks, coming faster and closer. Sam stands back up as four women in skin-tight white suits ( ** _more_** _Isos?_ ) approach him, their footsteps unnervingly in-sync until they stop inches away from him.

            _Is the blond checking me out?_ he wonders, watching her gaze slowly rise to meet his as he stumbles out a greeting. “Uh, hi ladies –”

            The blond raises a finger, silencing him as it sparks to life, then she and the brunet drag their lit fingers along the outer seams of his favorite jeans, splitting them open.

            “Wha – hey! They’ve got a zipper –” To which the African ladies answer by lighting their own fingers and stripping Sam’s jacket and shirt off his body.

            A brief, sucking sound later, and Sam only has his boots, dogtags, and underwear left to his name. The blond’s gaze snags on his ‘tags as she stands up again.

            Sam glares at her, silently daring her to try taking them. Jeans, wallet, and keys might be a bitch to replace, but they’re _replaceable_. Taking his ‘tags would be an act of war, as far as he’s concerned.

            A faint expression passes over her features, her head dipping in the tiniest hint of acknowledgement as a cool, black substance races up over his toes, clicking together like Lego pieces until they enclose his shoulders.

            Then all four women step away from him, in-sync again – the faint _whoosh_ of their exit making Sam shiver as his body-heat struggles to warm up the black stuff – as they split into pairs to grab some things from nearby shelves on opposite sides of the room. They return holding pieces of body armor, which they press onto his back, arms, and chest.

            The pieces not only stick to him, but grow, protecting his whole body as their circuits light up white . . . and stay that way.

            “Oh, this isn’t good,” Sam breathes, staring at it. He remembers what Quorra told him ages ago about the Grid’s color scheme: how red was strictly for Security, and blue and green were ubiquitous to the point of being almost interchangeable. Gold was the rarest, to signify the Grid’s leader . . .

            And white meant you were either an alien to the System, like Dad and Ram, or you were a Program with an undesignated purpose . . . like an Iso.

            _I’m screwed, no matter what they decide I must be_ , Sam thinks. No way he could just slip in, get a few answers, and slip back out with no one the wiser, now. He’s bound to draw attention and will have to fight his way out.

            _If_ he survives his present mess.

            _“Attention, Program,”_ a female voice drones from above. _“This is your Identity Disk. Everything you do, or learn, will be imprinted –”_

            Sam snorts and rolls his eyes, recognizing the opening monologue to the _TRON_ games. _Really, Dad?_ he thinks. _You couldn’t think up something more original?_

            Then something locks onto his back, and the room flares into _Matrix_ -style coding for the briefest second. He blinks, a weird dizziness shooting through him as his brain seems to grow within his skull. His hands flare out at his sides, feeling like he’s losing his balance; his whole body tingling with a low current of energy –

            “-chronized. Proceed to Games,” he hears the blond say.

            “Games?” he asks, blinking through the spots in his vision as he struggles to adjust to everything at once.

            The women back away, pace unhindered from walking backwards as they stare at him. “Individual or teams?” he asks, a shiver of apprehension passing through him.

            No one answers.

            He twists around as far as he can. “What’s the goal? Am I against a person or an object?”

            One by one he watches them return to their caches and shut down.

            He whips to the other side. “Ladies, I have questions!”

            “Think fast,” the blond says. He unwinds again to face her. “Stay alive. Trust them to find you.”

            Sam’s eyes narrow. “Trust who –”

            She smirks, steps back, and shuts down.

            A moment later a big door opens, emitting a bright white light as his shackles release him.

            Sam stumbles back a little, then raises a hand to block some of the light, blinking again as his eyes try to adjust. Seeing nothing past the light, he ignores it to turn and take a full view of the room he’s in for the first time.

            Something tugs at him, a ring of heat forming between his shoulder blades.

            _‘. . . if you lose your Disk, or fail to follow commands . . .’_ echoes in his memory. “Command _me_ , will you,” he growls, facing the light again. Allowing himself thirty seconds, Sam takes a breath, then squats and rolls into a somersault, the ring cooling slightly as he nears the light. He jumps up into a flurry of kicks and punches against imaginary enemies, edging his way towards the light so the ring continues to cool. With one last  yell and spin-kick, he stops at the light’s pulsing edge at the twenty second mark, and evaluates: _Response time’s faster; might be stronger and a little more flexible, too._ Air huffs between his lips a couple times, his heartrate settling a lot quicker than it usually does as he rolls his shoulders and looks himself over. _It’s a damn nice suit_.

            The ring heats again. Sighing out his annoyance, he reaches and pulls his Disk from his back, bouncing it on his hands to keep the inner ring from burning him as he tests its weight. When the heat continues to mount on his back, he shuffles a few steps further into the light.

A testing thumb brushing over the Disk’s inner ring makes it light up, a helmet suddenly enclosing his head and dropping a shield down to just short of his jawline in a single motion. _That’s a touch concerning_ , he thinks, startled at the sensation.

            The heat turns searing as his mental alarm goes off. Sam deactivates everything and rolls his neck, shaking out his arms and shoulders one more time as the helmet drops back into his collar. Then he idly spins his Disk on his finger, resisting the urge to do a Charlie Chaplin waddle to mock his captors as he finally walks where they want him to go.

            It’s not like they’d recognize or understand the reference, anyway.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

_Sir, I believe we have a new User on the Grid._

_Greetings, Gem. What makes you say that?_

_He came to us wearing multiple pieces of alien textiles with no discernable circuitry, [she reports as image packets of the man’s face, damp clothing, and emblem that could apparently be separated from him float through their connection.] When the circuitry of his armor lit up, it did not change from the startup white, which seemed to concern him. He knew about Identity Disks, but asked questions about the Games; said ‘zipper’, called us ‘ladies’ . . ._

_[She hesitates.]_

_He . . . **felt** like you did. I do not know how to explain it._

_[Their connection hums with static for a moment, her superior’s focus – if she is reading it correctly – studying the detachable emblem.]_

_Intriguing. We’ll look into it. Thank you, Gem. . . . Are you staying safe?_

_Yes, Sir. Nothing else to report._

_Let’s hope it stays that way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God News: I had just backed everything in Renegade up to Ch 6 a few days before my computer killed itself (did my Programs not like where I was going?), so I can keep to schedule even with my new computer not being set up the way I like.  
> Bad news: I'm going to send both computers to the doctor in a couple days, with hope of getting back everything else I've lost - including the first 1/3-1/2 of Ch 7 - so my responses to comments, questions, etc. will likely be delayed to later this week or even next week.
> 
> Be safe, y'all, and I'll see you on the flipside. :-)


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the Game starts to change . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been meaning to warn y'all: Sam, being a Flynn raised by a Flynn, tends to cuss a lot more that Alan usually does. Hopefully that doesn't bother anyone too much.

**Chapter 2**

            His Disk stops spinning as he enters a glassed-in cubicle. The light shuts off behind him, and Sam returns his Disk to his back as he realizes he’s the only person with white circuits in a circle of blues and greens.

            He’s also the only one still moving.

            _Are any of you **alive**_ , he wonders, pressing his face against the glass on the far end.

            His cubicle jerks; begins to rise along with the others as a roaring sound builds into a stadium full of yelling fans.

            _“All combatants,”_ the female Voice drones again as the circle breaks apart. _“Prepare for: Disk Wars.”_ And the crowd begins to chant _Disk! Wars!_ like the stomp-stomp-clap of _We Will Rock You_ at a baseball game.

            Sam’s cubicle rises to the nosebleed section and drops him off on a new enclosed platform. He heads to the enclosed end to get a better view of the blue/green/red crowd just before the whole stadium surges to its feet as a new round of wordless cheering commences, and his platform happens to rotate just enough to give him a perfect view of the gold-lined ship slotting into place.

            Sam’s world narrows, the Voice and crowd becoming distant, unnecessary details to the cloaked-and-helmeted figure strutting towards a chair situated front-and-center in the visible room of the ship. _“Clu,”_ he breathes, slowly shifting to keep the figure in sight as his platform keeps turning; watches as the figure sits down and flings a leg over the chair’s arm like it owns the world.

This is Dad’s betrayer and captor; the monster of Quorra’s nightmares . . . .

            And maybe even Alan’s killer.

            Sam’s jaw clenches, eyes narrowing into a glare as the figure cocks its head at him –

            Something _slams_ inches from his face as he rounds the corner, sending sparks and debris flying as it bounces away. Sam jerks back, eyes following the Disk’s trail until it returns to its owner across the way.

            “Thanks for the warning shot!” he yells to the vaguely Asian woman who catches it.

            She answers by flinging her Disk at him again.

            He settles closer to the center of his platform; catches and sends it back with a quick and easy toss. “What’s your name? You live in the area?”

            Something – anger? annoyance? – passes over her sad features, and she grunts as she throws her Disk into the air above them at a near-perpendicular angle.

            Sam watches it; shuffles over a couple steps as it descends towards him; twists and raises his arms to protect his face from another round of sparks and debris –

            - And barely catches himself on the edge as the hexagon he’s standing on crumples under him.

            “Holy _shit_ are you serious,” he mutters to himself as he wiggles back onto solid ground again, then ducks and rolls away from the approaching buzz just as her Disk destroys _that_ hexagon, too. He finally pulls and activates his Disk and helmet as he regains his feet, heart pounding in his ears as he waits for her next move.

            She’s already charging, catching her Disk on the run before she jumps onto a hexagon sitting between their platforms and bounces toward his own.

            _“I’m sorry,”_ he breathes, and breaks the newly-reformed hexagon in front of him. He falls to his belly and barely manages to grab her free arm as she falls through. “Is there a way outta here without killing each other?” he asks in a rush.

She blinks at him. Then raises her Disk and slashes her own arm off.

Sam can feel her arm disintegrate in his grip as he watches her plummet and break apart against the platform rotating below him.

He doesn’t know which is more sickening.

            _“Combatant Three: Victor_ y,” he hears the Voice say, and swallows against a dry throat as a new platform slots into place. _“Combatants Three and Eleven: Disk Wars.”_

            _Put it aside_ , he tells himself, closing his eyes briefly as he stands again. He backs up as far as he can while watching the new guy (woman? the mask is completely blacked out) do some intimidation acrobatics. The holes in his floor fill in again as the Program settles zeself into position with a snarl.

            “Yeah . . . No,” Sam decides, and breaks into a run. A Disk charges at him; he blocks it with his own as he slips into a slide and grabs the lip of his platform, then winces as the crowd at his level cheers again.

            _Damnit, got another one killed._ A heartbeat later another platform appears below him, and he drops onto it.

            That damn ring on his back starts to burn again.

            _Shoulda planned this better_ , he thinks, glancing around as the Voice declares his victory. He rolls his Disk between his fingers before plunging it into the platform’s side and uses his own body weight to repel down further. (He sees a Disk whiz through the air at the Program staring gape-mouthed at him; winces as the Program disintegrates.)

            _“Combatant Three: Violation,”_ the Voice says. _“Combatant Six: Deresolution.”_

            The ring gets hotter as Sam lands. _Two down, two more to go_. He puts his Disk away and runs toward the back of this one, hoping to avoid distracting the Program inside this time. He waits an extra two seconds for the last platform to pass below; jumps. . .

            And almost misses. His foot slips, ankle twisting, and before Sam can catch his balance or find a grip, he’s heading to the floor – luckily only about ten feet below – where he lands on his back like a turtle.

            The ring sears his lungs as Sam gasps for air.

            “ _Ow_ -ly _sshitt!_ ” Sam huffs, rolling onto his hands and knees. He coughs a couple times then takes a deep breath, forcing a fresh rhythm into his chest as he looks up. _That’s gonna leave a mark._

            _“Combatant Three: Violation,”_ the Voice tells everyone one more time as armed guards start spilling out of the walls. _“Disc Wars: Suspended.”_

            _He fights for the Users_ , Sam thinks inanely as he gets to his feet, _but who fights for him?_ He edges towards the nearest piece of blank wall and raises his fists as the guards close in with weapons raised and spark- –

            _“Cease and desist, Program,”_ a smarmy-sounding male voice says over the loudspeaker. _“The Luminary has granted you an audience.”_

            “Oh, joy,” Sam mutters, watching the guards nearest him immediately drop their weapons and step away. Another section parts almost magically, like the Red Sea in that one Ben-Hur movie ( _No, not Ben-Hur. Moses. Same actor, though_ ). Sam shakes his head clear, huffing at himself as he lowers his stance and eyes everyone. The whole damn stadium’s so still and silent he can feel the floor humming as he takes a step forward –

            _“Well come along, then,”_ the new voice says, like it’s urging a toddler to move faster.

            It reawakens the crowd, who boo and hiss at him as he edges through his tunnel of guards. A familiar pattern of lights hidden amongst the guards snags his gaze ( _– that a plane?_ ), but even that brief hesitation incites the guards nearest him to grab his arms and drag him the rest of the way, the crowd only getting louder with its disapproval.

            Sam struggles and fusses with the guards holding him a bit – more for show than anything else, really – until they reach an elevator. Then he realizes, _Hey, the heat’s gone._

            _Maybe the fall broke it._

*  *  *  *  *

            He hears engines rev up as they pull him through one room with no discernable purpose and into the one looking out at the arena. Sam’s eyes zero in on Clu, who’s still sprawled on his throne, ignoring their entrance as he flips through some holograms –

            “Innovative tactics,” the smarmy voice muses, its owner drawing Sam’s attention much closer as the Program approaches him. “The last time we saw such . . . _creativity_ in a Game, it turned out to be a User in our midst.” The super-pale bald guy steps well into Sam’s personal bubble to look him over, trying to intimidate him.

            Nobody moves, silence dragging out for a few beats. _Is he expecting an answer?_ “O . . . kay,” Sam replies. “Thanks for the history lesson, I guess.”

            Bald Guy pouts at him, then flicks the guards off his arms to circle him easier. “Your circuitry indicates that you’re not of the Grid,” he says, finger stroking down a thick line on Sam’s arm. Sam very carefully doesn’t pull it away, suppressing the shiver of _no_ that passes through him. “There’s no record of you in the System until the Portal’s scheduled relighting, but you weren’t found at the Portal, were you.” A guard shifts ever-so-slightly out the corner of Sam’s eye, but Sam resists looking, uneasily focused on the enemy Program so close to his Disk. “Who are you?” Bald Guy purrs in his other ear.

            “Not your average Program, obviously,” Sam says, side-eyeing the Program to keep Clu in his periphery. _You seriously need to up your intimidation tactics, buddy_ , he doesn’t say as their eyes meet again.

            Bald Guy tries to turn his pout into a scowl as he finishes his circle; he doesn’t succeed. “What is your purpose here,” he demands in a harsher voice.

            “Who’s asking?” Sam rebuts, leaning slightly into him and reclaiming his own space.

            “ _I am_ ,” Clu growls through his helmet as he shuts down the holograms and rounds his chair.

            _When did he get up?_ Sam wonders, raising his eyebrows at him. “And who’re you?”

            The helmet comes down, and nobody seems to breathe for a few seconds.

            Sam blinks. Even expecting to see his father’s face, he’s still a little blown away at how _young_ Clu looks. _Not to Self: Programs on the Grid don’t physically age_ , he thinks, then awkwardly waves his hand at Clu to cover his pause as he says, “I . . . take from the dramatic reveal I’m supposed to recognize you?”

            Clu scowls, and Sam nearly bites through his cheek not to laugh. “Why are you looking for Tron?” he asks.

            Sam raises his eyebrows again, hopefully covering a bubble of panic forming in his gut. “Who said I was looking for anyone?”

            Clu smirks – **_so_** _not a good sign_ – and leans back, pressing something on the table the holograms were at.

            _“-arrex,”_ he hears Jarrex say from a wall close to him. _“Who’re you looking for?”_

            _Shit, the Recognizer was bugged_ , Sam thinks, turning to find the speakers as his own voice answers, _“A Security Program named Tron. Or Ram, if he’s busy.”_

            Sam’s eyes again snag on that familiar pattern of lights as Clu turns the speakers off with a soft crackle.

            “I say again: why are y- –”

            “You already know the answer. Why bother asking me?” Sam says, dragging his focus back to Clu as his chest tightens further with panic.

            Clu’s mouth tightens, and he crosses his arms. “Which Twin are you.”

            “Twin?” It’s such a non-sequitur that the bubble bursts. Sam huffs to himself and answers directly. “I’m no twin. I’m the only lonely Sam, I am.” He nods decisively; his hands clasp behind his back as he rocks on his toes, not-quite biting back his amusement this time at how easily he’s thrown Clu, even as something niggles –

            “Sam-I-am,” Clu muses to himself, body language shifting as he looks down in thought.

            Sam stills. _Ah, hell. Do you know Dr. Seu- –_

            “Sam _Flynn_!” Clu snarls, reaching –

                        - A Disk flies out of nowhere, breaking the glass behind Clu –

\- A hand grabs Sam’s arm, pulling him forward; another shoves a baton into Sam’s other hand and the Program breathes _“Run!”_

                                                - Shouting. Shots fired. And Sam’s suddenly jumping out of the broken window and activating the baton as he falls.

            A single-engine plane forms around him – thankfully with game controls he’s familiar with – and Sam follows his rescuer’s weaving path past a few scrambling fighters back into the city, where they quickly lose their tails while dodging between buildings.

            It takes a few minutes for the fighting instinct to dissipate, but Sam’s heart won’t stop pounding at his ribs, and his lungs can’t seem to get enough air out to get fresh air in. Then his hands start to shake from adrenaline, and he realizes he’s hit his maximum for the craziness he’s gotten into. He pushes the engine until he’s even with the other plane and waves to get the Program’s attention. “I need to land before I crash!” he shouts.

            It takes a couple extra-fast heartbeats, but the Program nods and veers their path towards a building angled towards an old-style I/O tower. They land (somehow. Sam doesn’t have the capacity to handle the details), and Sam stumbles his way towards an edge of the roof as a precaution, collapsing a few feet short as his vision dims and static fills his ears.

            He presses the baton between his hands and the ground, trying to anchor himself as he feels his body curl into a defensive position. But the sensation quickly fades as his fight for air increases. He closes his eyes and tries to regulate his breathing – deep breath into the nose; slow and controlled exhale through the mouth – only to break into dry sobs on the third round as his buzzing, unhelpful mind compiles a list of the dead:

the suicide

the three at the arena

and probably Jarrex, too. Hell, Clu might destroy the whole Recognizer – guards included – just for sheer, bratty spite.

            _Haven’t been here an hour yet, and **at least** five Programs are dead. Great hero you’ve turned out to be._

            _But Jet’s still here_ , he argues back, the sobs (thankfully) quieting down. _Even with red circuits, he’s still fighting Clu._

            _Like Tron did for Alan_ , a tiny voice pipes up within.

            The shaking eases as he camps out on that thought. His heartbeat relaxes, allowing him to breathe again. Static fades from his ears, leaving them with a dull, echoing ring instead. But of all things, it’s the thrice-damned burn in his back that pulls him into the here-and-now again. “ _Sonuva **bitch**_ , make it stop!” he hisses, clawing his Disk off its dock and trying to pull the burn away.

            A hand grabs both of his and pins them to the back of his head. “Be still,” Jet murmurs, a soft jolt of energy igniting nearby. Then a searing new pain erupts on Sam’s back.

            His brain short-circuits, but Sam manages to stay still through the agony. (Screaming may or may not happen, though.) The grip and pain release him in the same instant, and he scrambles away before facing Jet. “What the _fucking hell_ was tha- –”

            His mouth gapes open, unable to decide what to process first: the sudden lightness of five pounds removed from his back, the plate of circuits sparking malevolently between them, or the shift in Jet’s circuitry from red to a very deep blue.

            Not to mention how Jet could be mistaken for Sam’s younger brother with an early 90s Leonardo DiCaprio hairstyle.

            “A new addition to the Games suits, after Alan trounced Clu,” Jet says, foot nudging towards the circuits like he’s trying to douse the sparks with dirt. “Most Programs can’t resist a command – even an implied one – but those who can get an extra dose of torture every time, until their individuality’s erased.” Jet cocks his head at the pile. “Also several trackers, which is a horrible design flaw, since they tend to melt along with everything else. Not that anyone’ll tell _him_ that.”

            _Two out of three answered_ , Sam thinks numbly. “You’ve changed colors.”

            Jet glances at his own circuits like he hadn’t noticed the change, eyes him, then shrugs a shoulder. “A bonus of being the child of a User and an Iso, apparently.” He comes closer; offers Sam a hand up. “Programs who’ve escaped Clu’s Rectification process can do it too, but it’s not as strong and takes a lot more energy and concentration.”

            _So Jarrex might still have a chance_ , Sam thinks, a spark of hope making him smile as he accepts the offer –

            He gets spun around, arm pinned behind his back and an active Disk pressed an inch short of his throat for his trust. “Your antics today have forced me to drop my mission, abandon my contacts, and destroy my cover,” Jet growls into his ear. “I am _not_ happy to see you.”

            “Fair enough,” Sam says with a swallow, and the grip releases him. He staggers away and turns to face Jet, ready for a fight, but the Program’s already walking away.

            “This is not a safe location,” Jet says over his shoulder, like the last five seconds didn’t happen. “Are you ready to continue?”

            “Depends. You planning on killing me when we get there?” Sam asks, rubbing at his throat.

            Jet gives him an amused look. “If I wanted you dead, you would be,” he says, then dives off the roof. A deep blue plane rises and begins circling the building a moment later.

            _Ask a stupid question_. Sam snorts and shakes his head at himself, then follows Jet back into their flight over the city.

*  *  *  *  *

_It takes almost too long for him to process the new User’s actions. He manages to shrug his camouflage back on just before they land again, but the guards don’t give him a second glance._

_[What do we do? What do we do?] the others ping him silently, bumping the question into him as the guards herd them toward a module that has red-lit Security drones marching out from the other side._

_He swallows back his fear, all too familiar with what’s to come. “Lock down your cores,” he tells them. “Fight for yourselves, then each other, if you can.” He takes one last free breath. “Keep the faith.”_

_The others calm, and hands grasp his; the User’s power humming between them again as they form a circle within the module._

_The two surviving stragglers from their Recognizer, as well as several other Programs, give them looks ranging from mockery to mild confusion as they form their own neat lines around the circle of rebels._

_[ **This is gonna hurt** ] Jarrex thinks, closing his eyes and shivering as the doors shut behind them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the quiet due to Sam-POV-induced boredom, or just that the story's still too similar to Legacy to warren commenting yet?


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Escaping Clu by going deeper into the rabbit hole . . . was this really a good idea?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On one hand: chapters 3 and 4 are each pretty short (about four pages each), so maybe I should post 'em closer together. On the other hand: chapter 3 ends in a bit of am emotional wallop, and doubling up cuts into my leeway space between writing and posting (I'm grinding my way through chapter 9 - a major transition point - at the moment, and things'll be changing swiftly shortly after that). It could also confuse my mental scheduling.
> 
> Any opinions?

**Chapter 3**

            Sam’s pretty sure he should stay quiet and at least wait until they get wherever they’re going, but once the question forms in his head, it won’t let go. The city has long faded from below them, and Jet’s doing aerial acrobatics like he’d gotten bored with the trip a while back.

            After several barrel rolls, a soaring stall-out, and a recovery that brings him back to Sam’s level again, Sam’s mouth refuses to stay shut. “Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he shouts, “but why _did_ you rescue me, if it disturbed your plans so much? I wasn’t even sure it was you there, so it’s not like I ordered or even _asked_ –”

            He sees Jet’s hand wiggle a little on a control, and the Program says in his ear, “The last thing we need is Clu puppeteering a User for his own ends.”

            Sam eyes the Program skeptically, the answer somehow too pat for him to believe. He finds his own button and answers, “Uh-huh. What’s the real reason?”

            He sees Jet duck his head away and breathe deep, hesitate –

            A bolt of energy _zing_ s between them, and Sam jerks his plane hard in surprise.

            “Don’t panic. It’s just the defense perimeter,” Jet says, idly dodging two more bolts like they’re feathers or balloons. “Getting hit’ll just stun you ‘til they have time to come collect you from the field.”

            “Gee, that sounds nice,” Sam grumbles to himself, then asks, “Who the hell would ‘they’ be, anywa- –”

            A bolt clips a wingtip, sending Sam spinning. Another nails his belly before he can straighten out, killing the engine. He nosedives into the sand, limbs spasming as energy climbs from the dissolving plane into his circuits.

            It hurts, yet . . . it’s kinda ticklish, too, like how a sore muscle might feel right after the kink’s massaged out.

            Sam lays still as the energy bleeds out a few long minutes later, mentally checking himself for damage. He wiggles the fingers of one hand; feels them tap against his chest with no trouble. Then he nudges a foot to flop into a more-comfortable position.

            _So much for getting stunned_ , he smirks to himself. _Don’t feel like moving just yet, though_ . . .

            Footsteps crunch in the near-distance a minute later, and Sam feels himself tense slightly as he debates if he wants to give Jet a scare like he’d given Sam earlier –

            “Jet, your timing continues to be terrible,” a voice he hasn’t heard in twenty years calls out, amusement lacing its tone. Sam’s lungs stop working without his permission. ( _This is it . . ._ ) The crunching stops, a presence settling close to him. A hand lands on his shoulder and gently pulls him onto his back as the voice continues, “It’s not like you to bring home strays. Everything alright –?”

            Sam’s eyes open as he flops over, and his inner seven-year-old squeals with joy. _“Tron,”_ he breathes.

            The figure kneeling over him stills, blinks. “Hello, Sam.”

            Sam sits up, Tron’s hand falling off his shoulder as he glances over the Program’s white circuits. Their gazes lock again as he grins. “He got you out.”

            “He did.”

            “He made a spectacle of himself at the Disk Wars Arena,” Jet says loudly, breaking the holiness of the moment as he walks up. Sam feels a blush rise in his cheeks as he looks away. “Then he somehow managed to completely expose himself when Clu asked if he was Beck or me. How did he get from ‘Sam-I-am’ to Sam Flynn, anyway?”

            “Dr. Seuss,” Tron murmurs, then smiles at Sam. “So Roy’s nickname stuck. Alan’ll be pleased to hear it.” He stands.

            Sam follows him up. “Alan’s alive?”

            “Yes,” Tron says, smile fading as he adds, “No thanks to Flynn.”

            “What?” Sam asks, bewildered. “What did Dad do –?”

            Something lurches in the air; the ground vibrating under their feet like an earthquake warning. Tron’s focus jerks to a mountain that’s . . . strangely familiar. “Damnit,” he mutters. “Hurry!”

            They break into a sprint towards the mountain. Movement out the corner of Sam’s eye reveals a platoon’s worth of dust-grey insect creatures crowding around the same mountain, their “heads” glowing blue-white like the bolts that took Sam’s plane down. He shivers, weirded-out as their heads tilt up in-sync, aiming at a shimmering plateau high on the mountain’s side.

            “Looks to be a bad one,” Jet shouts to Tron, bringing up their rear.

            “They’re all bad now,” Sam thinks he hears Tron say.

            The vibration becomes a shake, an unnerving hum developing as they enter a cavern. They crowd onto a small platform that rises quickly enough to create a wind-gust, cracks chasing their path. A brief pause at a floor filled with computers makes Sam’s breath catch even as his ears pop. _I know this place_.

            “Ram?” Tron calls.

            “I got this! Go!” the one visible Program shouts back, waving them off without turning from his terminal as pieces of the walls start to break off and disintegrate.

            Tron takes his word for it, their platform shooting several floors higher before settling again. Lights pulse along the walls, and a high-pitched squeal just inside the range of human hearing pierces Sam’s skull.

            “Jet, stay with him,” Tron orders, then barrels his way through a door.

            Sam tries to follow him, but stumbles to a stop at the doorway, clutching his ears uselessly against the pain. He stays vertical long enough to see Tron approach a writhing, snarling figure inside, both of their white circuits glowing dangerously bright, then he collapses, tears blurring his vision.

            Someone screams – not Sam this time.

            Then a bomb goes off. That’s the only way Sam can describe how everything just . . . stops. He hesitantly pulls his hands from his ears, half-expecting to find blood on his palms as he heaves for breath.

            Nothing. He swallows and wipes at his eyes; only finds the usual saline of tears.

            “You okay?” Jet whispers above him.

            Sam looks up to see the Program had created a protective bubble around him with his own body, his now-white circuits glowing almost as brightly as Tron’s.

            His Disk is also out and activated, as though he expects an enemy to pounce on them.

            “What was that?” Sam whispers back, too stunned to try testing his legs yet.

            “Alan.”

            _“What?”_ Sam says, confused indignation raising his volume. “Are you saying _Alan_ created that earthquake? That Alan nearly made a freakin’ _mountain_ collapse on itself? You think he’s some kinda god or so- –”

            “He’s a User,” Jet says simply, eyebrows wrinkling at him. “How do you _not_ know?”

            Sam gapes back at him, some of Dad’s oldest stories slowly filtering back into his memory in the silence –

            “Shut up,” Tron gruffly says inside the darkened room. They turn to see him pulling a much-older version of himself to his feet, gently patting him down as Alan leans against him, tucking his face against Tron’s shoulder. The Program snaps something that Sam doesn’t catch, wrapping an arm around Alan’s waist and urging him toward something shimmering outside.

            A warning pings in Sam’s mind as he watches, but it’s drowned out by a much bigger question as he stands: “What the hell happened?”

            “Flynn,” Jet says almost-flippantly as he straightens and takes a step back.

            Sam rolls his eyes at the Program, silently asking him to knock off the one-word answers.

            Jet’s mouth quirks. “Everything went to plan after you left,” he says. “Better, actually. Alan had only really intended to free Tron and push other Programs to realize what Clu was doing. What we got was over two-dozen Programs freed to build a new City, with dozens more soon to trickle in after them.”

            Jet deactivates and puts his Disk away as the other pair exit the room through some kind of walk-through window. “We brought them back here to rest, recover, and figure out what to do next. But Flynn attacked before anything could be discussed, let alone decided.”

            Sam opens his mouth –

            “It started Grid-wide, at first,” Jet says, cutting him his own _shut up_ look. “But it focused on Alan when it found him.” He shifts to lean on the other side of the doorway, and they watch the two men step down into something Sam can’t see from this angle. “It nearly killed him – would have, if Tron hadn’t blocked Flynn from the System.” (Sam vaguely remembers sparks; Dad cursing up a storm.) Jet closes his eyes and ducks his head. “No,” he breathes, correcting himself, his voice turning somber, “it still is.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, opening them again, sightless with memory. “We can fight Clu’s virus, but Flynn’s attack took something we can’t touch.” He looks at Sam, the devastation of a child witnessing something horrible in his eyes. “Alan’s dying. And you might be our only chance of saving him.”

            His eyes harden, jaw firming as he returns to the present. “ _That’s_ why I got you out.”

*  *  *  *  *

            _As if those bizarre energy surges hadn’t been troubling enough, he now has to deal with Clu’s goons crashing into his club and terrorizing his customers while the Program himself interrogates him._

            _And – perhaps the most concerning – he doesn’t have any allies, here or among the guards. Even Anon has ducked away into his usual hiding spot. “I haven’t the faintest, Clu,” he tells the Program again, frustration building as he turns to face him. “No new information or Programs have come to me since that Yori girl made her appearance – and any who **might** have something would likely have drastically outdated informa- –”_

_His eyes snag on a pinpoint of light in the distance. A pinpoint that should’ve disappeared a good twenty minutes ago. “There’s a new User in the System,” he murmurs to himself, mind buzzing with fresh angles and probabilities._

_Clu can’t seem to decide if he wants to smirk or grimace; his face blanks out instead._

_He blinks a couple times, refocusing on the SysAdmin. “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know,” he says opaquely. **Maybe. Eventually. If I feel like it.** He hopes Gem will have more-trustworthy information when she gets home . . . and fears what it might mean for their little family._

_Clu considers him for a moment, a faint amusement flickering over his features as he hums to himself. “Not good enough,” he decides, reaching for Castor’s chest –_


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making connections . . .

**Chapter 4**

            “Wha- I’m no doctor,” Sam says after a gobsmacked minute. Jet pulls away from the door and heads for the elevator again, Sam turning to follow him. “I _might_ be able to pull some basic Biology out, but anything beyond, like, tenth-grade is way outta my league.” They get in; head down at a calmer pace. “And that’s assuming I’ll even recognize the problem _and_ know how to fix it in another User’s coding – Where we going now?”

            “ _I’m_ going to let Ram know the danger has passed. I don’t know what you’re doing.” Jet glances at him when Sam huffs with annoyance, then wavers on his feet. “What’s Biology?”

            “It’s a science. How humans learn how living things work.” Sam sighs and rubs at his forehead, a headache coming on. “That’s what most Users call themselves, humans –”

            “Not all humans are Users, but all User are human,” Jet says, nodding. “We had that discussion ages ago. And you’ve only proven my point. Even general knowledge of how User systems work is more than anything we have here on the Grid.”

            “You had a point?” Sam asks sarcastically, half-wishing he hadn’t given up that wall upstairs to lean on as his vision darkens and gets woozy again.

            A hand cups his elbow, helping to steady him as the elevator settles onto a new floor. “You’ve expended too much energy,” Jet says, his voice echoing a little in Sam’s head. “Come on.” Guiding pressure leads Sam to a chair and eases him down into it.

            He actually misses the grip after it shifts, tightens briefly on one shoulder, and then disappears. He leans on his knees and takes deep breaths, trying to stay conscious. He’s been embarrassingly weak enough already . . . .

            _Something rumbles up his toes; tingles in his fingertips in greeting. It pulses with a gentle heartbeat, awaiting his acknowledgement. He reaches out and plucks it like a guitar string, and waves of . . . something reverberate from it, lighting up the world with a gentle glow as it spreads –_

            “Who are you. What is your purpose here,” a voice demands, a Disk igniting in warning.

            Still reeling from reverberations, Sam looks up and tries to blink away the dizziness. “You still look weird without glasses,” he answers, then stands on wavering feet. “But the lack of aging’s a lot more unnerving, this time ‘round. How y’doin’, Ram?”

            Ram steps back, gawping like a landed fish as he looks Sam over. “Wha- – you? It can’t be –”

            “Sit _down_ , Sam,” Jet orders from behind him. Sam barely manages to look over his shoulder before Jet’s at his side again. “Here, drink this,” he says, shoving a tiny vial into Sam’s hand and pushing him back into his seat. “Take a couple sips – and quit messing with the Grid until you’re up to speed again.”

            “Jeesh, you sound like Quorra. Where’d you get your mother-hen complex from?” Sam teases, thumbing off the lid.

            “From our mother, obviously,” Jet says, glaring at him until he takes a swig. “Beck clearly gets his recklessness from you.”

            Sam chokes, nearly spits out the energy simmering like Pop Rocks in his mouth. His eyes tear up as he swallows and wipes away the dribble that still escapes; coughs a couple times to reset his lungs. “I know it’s technically accurate,” he says; coughs and swallows again, “but could you _not_ make it sound like I slept with my _sister_ when we were kids? Incest is just – _blech_.”

            Jet’s brow wrinkles, his mouth opening –

            “I think he means ‘sleep’ in its euphemistic sense, Jet,” Ram says, a corner of his mouth curling in amusement as he deactivates and returns his Disk to its dock. Jet’s face twists into a meu of disgust once he processes that, circuits flashing violet as he shudders. “How did you get so big, Sam?” Ram asks. “Even knowing who you are, I can barely recognize you.”

            “It’s been twenty years, Ram,” Sam tells him, sitting up and setting the empty vial aside, feeling a whole lot better. “Kids grow up – hell, most of my generation’s already started on the next round of little ones.”

            “Does that mean Quorra’s bigger, too?”

            Sam can’t fight the smirk. “Not as big as me.”

*  *  *  *  *

            Something ripples through the energy he’s floating in, brightening it and nudging some of the more-difficult pieces of virus off him a little faster than usual.

            His eyes open to the empty sky as he asks, “What’s that?”

            He feels more than sees Tron cock his head and study the edge of the pool. “Sam must be poking at the Grid,” comes the muffled answer.

            “Sam?” he asks, rolling himself vertical as he faces his son. “ _Our_ Sam?”

            “There’s more than one?”

            “Don’t be a smartass with me,” Alan snaps, swimming to the wall just within Tron’s reach. “Is Sam here? Where did he come from? How long’s he been here?”

            “My, my. So many questions. Does that mean we’re ready to take some laps?”

            Alan scowls at his son, who can’t quite bite back his smirk. “Answer me –”

            “How about five laps, with two down below?”

            “I’m not joking –”

            Tron’s eyebrows raise. “Wanna make it ten and six?”

            Alan glares and snarls, but pushes off into a dive without another word.

            Tron suppresses a sigh as he turns back to Alan’s Disk. The red glares at him from there, too as he reverses his path until he returns to Alan’s full-figured coded form. He takes a moment to observe the white-flecked red, then plunges for the heart of the coding.

            Alan’s second lap begins with a splash as the sigh escapes Tron this time. The heart’s still safely encased in white, standing strong against the siege of red.

            Reluctantly, Tron gathers power in one hand and presses it against the white, requesting access. He hates doing this the Flynn way, always afraid he’s doing more harm than good for his father’s wellbeing, but their time is bound to be limited now. (It also doesn’t seem to last as long as their preferred method, but maybe Sam can help make it more permanent.)

            Access granted, Tron closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, internally recopying the essence of Alan still left over from their merge twenty years ago. Then he blasts it into the coding. When he opens his eyes again – what feels like an eon later – he finds a figure pulsing with white and streaked in red like battle scars, a near photo-negative of what he’d started with.

            The energy pool’s also gone quiet and still, coated black with corrupted code except for the glowing blue-green puddle sloshing softly around Tron’s feet on the first step.

            “Quick-and-dirty route, this time?” Alan asks from the next-to-last step.

            “Don’t think we’ll have time for something more intricate, especially if Sam keeps messing with the Grid,” Tron says, clicking out of the Disk. “Feeling better?”

            Alan shrugs, unable to meet his son’s gaze.

            “C’mon, then.” Tron pulls his feet from the puddle and moves to stand on dry ground, Alan taking the hand up until he reaches the last step.

Alan squeezes his son’s hand, pausing their usual dance. “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

            “I know the difference between you and the MCP, Alan,” Tron reminds him.

            “Doesn’t make it right, me talking to you like that.”

            “No, it doesn’t,” Tron says, then tilts his father’s face toward his. “But I know it’s not you.”

            Alan deflates with a sigh, briefly chewing his bottom lip as he nods. They settle into their usual brace.

            “Ready?” Tron asks, then clicks Alan’s Disk back into his dock before he can answer. Alan stiffens with a grunt, shaking as new coding flushes through him and burns away what’s left of the corruption until it flakes off him like patches of ash into the last puddle of clean energy.

            They both hate this part.

            He goes limp, and Tron scoops him up and off to bed, leaving the pool of corrupted energy behind for now.

*  *  *  *  * 

_He’s only half-listening to Mara and Paige’s debate about what’s keeping the Portal open so much longer than usual when the ripple finds him. He watches it brighten everything in the bar ever-so-slightly as it passes through, no one else seemingly aware of it._

_He probably wouldn’t have noticed it either, if it didn’t feel so familiar._

_“Here’s a thought,” Beck says as he puts his drink down. The others look to him, his voice weighted heavier than he usually pitches it. “What if it isn’t the Renegade **or** Clu mucking about? What if there’s another User on the Grid?”_

_“Oh, that’s **all** we need,” Paige snorts, gulping the last of her drink and setting the glass on their table with a thump. “Yet another User making trouble and screwing things up for us Programs.”_

_But Mara, usually eager to pounce on Paige over anything, eyes Beck as Paige rants on, remembering where – and maybe **who** – he came from._

_He shrugs a shoulder back at her, unable to answer the question in her gaze._

 

 


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a breather. Let's sit down and catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, essentially, an exposition dump. Hopefully I've kept it fairly entertaining.

**Chapter 5**

            He knocks softly against the doorframe, uneasy with entering their sanctuary without permission. Especially after getting the download on why Alan’s still here twenty years later.

            Tron looks up from contemplating his feet and nods, allowing Sam in.

            “How is he?” Sam asks, looking over the form on the bed between them. Unlike the Programs, Alan definitely shows his age in crows’ feet and shaggy gray-white hair.

            Tron shrugs, following Sam’s gaze as he answers in his own quiet voice, “Better than he was; nowhere near as well as I’d like.” Then he looks Sam over. “You look like you could use some rest, too.”

            Sam shrugs back, feeling his weariness. “Maybe later – Jet just gave me an energy boost, so I prob’ly won’t be able to sleep anytime soon.”

            Tron doesn’t look too pleased at that, but sighs. “That’ll have to do, I suppose. We likely won’t be able to stay here much longer.”

            “Why? Are those bug-things outside going to attack –?”

            Alan grunts in his sleep and rolls onto his stomach before settling again.

            Tron catches Sam’s eye and jerks his head towards the window-wall, legs sliding off the bed. Sam nods back and follows him out. “No, the gridbugs won’t attack us,” Tron says, heading to a pool full of repulsive black sludge. “They’re only triggered to turn our way when the virus makes itself a threat.” Lightning flickers off in the distance as Sam watches Tron scrape a hand through the sludge and roll it into a ball between his hands.

            “Where’d the virus come from, anyway?” Sam asks, eyeing the skyline. “Ram and Jet made it sound like Dad invented it, or something. Why would he do that?”

            “He didn’t invent it. It just infected him first,” Tron says absently, shifting to sit at the pool’s edge as the sludge starts glowing between his palms.

            “A . . . _computer virus_ infected my Dad?” Sam asks, trying not to sound too incredulous. He shakes his head. “Where’d _he_ get it?”

            Tron chews at his lip for a moment before answering with a question. “You remember the point in the game when your character turns from blue to red for a couple levels? And he doesn’t turn back until an ally nearly kills him?”

            _Can this get any weirder?_ Sam wonders, eyebrows rising. “. . . You’ve played your own game.”

            Tron scoffs. “I _lived_ it, aside from a few instances like that one.” He stops to study the glowing ball for a minute. “I still wonder sometimes why Flynn didn’t speak up _before_ I threw him off the Solar Sailer’s bridge.” He scrapes up some more sludge and keeps rolling. “The only thing I’ve been able to figure is that the MCP could only really control groups accurately back then, not individuals – the more Programs it had in a cluster, the stronger its power over them – gross motor skills, as it were.”

            Sam shifts his weight, feeling uneasy. “Are you saying that Clu’s virus is actually from the MCP – like, a piece of it? And Dad caught it somehow?”

            “If the game is accurate,” Tron stresses, setting the ball aside and scraping up a new one, “the MCP captured the original Clu and derezzed him slowly, learning something of how Flynn works – that might even be how it was able to bring Flynn into the Encom system to begin with.” The first glowing ball sprouts four spindly legs and a praying mantis-like head; bobs up and down a few times as it tries to figure itself out. “Then it was able to infect Flynn himself when he physically derezzed a guard.

            “But much as we may look and act alike, Users and Programs are still very different creatures, so it took a few years to break him down into components the MCP could analyze.” Tron scrapes out more sludge as the first little bug catches its balance and starts surveying its territory, bopping along as it takes a turn around the pool. Then he pauses in his rolling.

            “It’s possible that jumping into the MCP’s mainframe might’ve merged them briefly and sped up the process enough to influence Flynn into creating the Grid in the first place . . . . Might explain where his whole ‘perfect system’ thing came from.” He frowns in thought; shakes it off and keeps rolling. “If he’d taken the traditional route and created everything on the Grid through the keyboard, Flynn probably would not have given the virus such a stronghold here, weakened himself in the process, or created Programs with a natural gap for the virus to fill with his ‘shorthand’ coding – not that he could see the trouble he was setting us up for, let alone admit he was to blame.” He sets the second ball down as the first bug passes the halfway point around the pool; reaches for more sludge as that one grows legs, too.

            “How are you _doing_ that?” Sam asks.

            “What, this?” Tron asks, holding up his third still-misshapen ball. “I can’t create from nothing like a User can, but I’ve learned to manipulate what’s already there. This is a mishmash of the virus coding Alan shed earlier and various corrections and countermeasures we’ve made over the years.” He starts rolling it again. “Gridbugs would form out if it eventually anyway, since energy can’t be created or destroyed. All I’m really doing is twisting it to work _with_ us, instead of trying to destroy us.”

            After finding its legs, the second bug takes a running jump into the pool; the first one watches it for a moment, then quickly joins it for a swim as Tron chuckles. “Usually takes the fifth or sixth one to think of that. Seems everything’s accelerating today.”

            They watch the bugs play for a few minutes while Sam struggles to process everything: Dad, spreading a zombified piece of the MCP coding through a multitude of Programs like an STD; Tron getting infected, but somehow able to rebuff it just long enough for Alan to find and cure him, only for Alan to get infected himself (and now _he’s_ the one dying. Can’t forget that).

            And the Isos . . . Sam’s brow wrinkles. Where do the Isos fit in? Even as one of the last Isos in existence – and the only one to experience the User world – Quorra doesn’t seem to know the answer.

            Thunder rumbles closer before Sam can ask. Tron sets the third ball down and starts shooing the bugs out of the clearing sludge as he reaches for a plug to drain the pool. They’re quite a bit bigger and noticeably grayer as they scurry down the mountain.

            Sam scoops up the dimming ball before it can sprout its own legs, needing a physical distraction as he thinks. He feels it brighten again, sucking at his energy as he rolls it between his palms, not really noticing the code flashing through the corners of his vision –

            - Until one repeating string snags his attention. “What the . . .” he breathes, somehow instinctively pulling one out. “How the hell’d you get in here?” he asks it as it glows a pale, oddly malevolent brassy-gold at him.

            “That’s from the heart of the MCP’s coding,” Tron says, returning to Sam as he stares. “Translates to ‘End of Line’ in English. I still haven’t found a way to crack it.”

            Sam shivers, feeling a little sick as he looks it over again. _This is a whole lot bigger than just the Grid_ , he thinks. Anger rising, he crumples the bit of code and tosses it back into the pool, hardly hearing it sizzle as he starts pacing and rolling the ball again with greater intent as he debates and plans.

            The pool gets lower and lower as he goes through multiple rounds of flattening and re-rolling the ball, flicking out errant bits of coding with a vengeance. It shrinks a little more each time, getting hotter with every pass until it burns like a miniature sun in his palms. When a particularly stubborn piece refuses to budge at one point, Sam blasts coding of his own into the ball, wreaking a new kind of havoc as more modern codes cannibalize and update what had been beyond-cutting-edge twenty years before.

            Sam’s shaking and dizzy again by the time he registers Tron yelling at him. The Program grabs his forearms, stilling his movement. Lighting crackles through the sky above, thunder growling after it as Sam tries to blink the spots from his eyes. It feels like wind should be whipping around them, but everything’s utterly alien and still as he stares at the roiling clouds above them.

            “Sam. Breathe,” Tron says – no, commands.

            Almost like he’d been waiting for permission, Sam’s lungs take in a gasp of air, and his chin drops to his chest in the exhale.

            “Again.”

            Sam’s a little more under control the second time around, chin rising to lock gazes with Tron. He blinks the spots away. _Is he glowing brighter?_

            “Good. Now, put it down.”

            Sam’s arms jerk a little in refusal, a noise of protest lodging in his throat, but Tron doesn’t budge.

            “ _Sam_. Put it down.”

            Sam’s knees melt under him, Tron following him down the entire way. It takes another breath for Sam to unclench his hands and release the ball onto cracked pavement. (. . . _When did that happen?_ ) Without breaking eye contact, Tron nudges Sam a little further away as they straighten. Then he takes a wide berth around the ball and ushers Sam back inside.

            Sam leans on him, relieved to have the extra support even if he doesn’t really need it.

            They’re barely two steps back into the room when the storm lets loose with a gust of wind and crash of thunder. Tron urges him into a chair next to a fireplace, even wraps a blanket around his shoulders, before he settles down to build a fire.

            Sam watches him dazedly, not quite feeling like he’s in his body. Lightning flashes, thunder booms, wind howling . . . and something _shift_ s behind him. It takes more effort than it should to turn and look back the way they came.

            His little bug has a warm, yellow-white glow and looks a lot more bug-like, even as it shakes off the excess water like a dog. It raises its two front feet to wipe off its face and antennae one more time, then settles back onto all six legs as it looks around the room.

            Sam doesn’t move; doesn’t do anything to draw the bug’s attention – or Tron’s attention to it, for that matter.

            It wanders its way toward them at first – probably drawn to the sounds of Tron moving and muttering at the fire – then pauses mid-step, as though sensing something, and climbs up onto the bed with Alan instead.

            Alan must’ve shifted again in his sleep while they were out at the pool, because the bug settles on his chest and glows a little brighter as its antennae dance questioningly over his face. Alan takes a sleepy swipe at the tickling sensation, but doesn’t seem to notice the extra weight holding him down. The bug lets the movement pass, then goes right back to exploring. A slightly more irritated swipe doesn’t change anything; neither do Ram and Jet’s voices, commiserating softly as they step into the room.

            Then Jet shouts, and all hell almost breaks loose as all three Programs jerk up, four Disks lighting for battle, and Alan jumps awake with a startled “What the –” as he shoves the bug away and sits up.

            “Bug,” Sam murmurs, finding his voice before the others can react further. “Off the bed.” Like that’s what everyone’s taking issue with.

            The bug bounces its way to him, stopping just short of jumping into his lap to prop its front feet on Sam’s knee and wave its antennae excitedly at him. Tron’s the first to relax, huffing a breathless laugh and putting his Disks away as Sam scratches it between the antennae. Ram looks intrigued as he follows suit.

            Jet hesitates, edging his way between Alan and the bug with an uneasy look on his face. “What is that? What was it doing to Alan?” he asks.

            “It’s Sam’s version of a gridbug,” Sam hears Tron answer. . . .

            It takes an extra beat for him to realize that’s only half of the questions answered, and everyone’s staring at him as he keeps petting the bug. “Think he was tryin’ to figure out if you were okay,” he says, turning to Alan. “How you feelin’?”

*  *  *  *  *

            “Oh . . . Okay. Pretty good, actually,” Alan says, not entirely sure if he’s awake as he settles himself into a better position. It usually takes him most of a millicycle to recover decently, but the adrenaline rush from waking up so suddenly probably won’t let him sleep again anytime soon. And yet . . . he feels far better than he should, if his internal clock is accurate. He feels even better than he had before they’d had to chase down Yori almost eight cycles ago. ( _Did the bug do that?_ ) “Have you given him a name?” he asks instead, running a hand over the sheets to smooth out a wrinkle.

            Sam chuckles softly. “Hasn’t been alive five minutes yet. You name your bugs?” he asks, looking to Tron.

            Tron’s mouth quirks. “Mine aren’t as unique as yours,” he says.

            With that stilted line of conversation exhausted, Programs and Users sit in an awkward silence for another beat. Then Ram turns to the decanter and glassware set sitting in a nook along the wall by the fireplace. “Well,” he says, pulling another two glasses out from down below. “I guess this means our timetable needs to go up another couple notches.” He fills two glasses almost to the brim with blue-green energy, and splashes about a finger’s worth in the other three. “Maybe have the Renegade hit multiple targets at once, as a distraction?” He offers the trayful to Tron first, who takes two – a full, and a mostly empty – then heads for Jet and Alan.

            Tron hands the full one to Sam as Jet responds, “Might make matters worse. I’m pretty sure Clu’s kidnapping Programs and changing them into an army of Sentries somehow, but I still haven’t found the purpose.” Jet pauses for a sip. “And even with the Renegade boosting resistance, Clu’s virus is still infecting New City –”

            Who – or what – is Renegade?” Sam interrupts, taking a sip as everyone stares at him again. “Pretty sure you’re not referring to the song.”

            “Tron and Beck, mostly,” Alan answers, fighting a smile as he reaches for the last glass with less in it. Ram smoothly pulls the tray back and glares him into taking the full one instead. “Though Ram or Jet have taken over on occasion, when the other two’ve needed to be visible.”

            “. . . You’re playing Batman,” Sam says, staring disbelievingly at him.

            Alan grins. “ _I’m_ not. _They_ are.” He gestures at the others. “I’ve been staying in my Fortress of Solitude here, to avoid infecting anyone.” He takes a couple big swallows, half-draining the glass.

            “Uh-huh,” Sam deadpans, still staring at him. “Why would you need to move the timetable up? What’re you planning to do?”

            The Programs look to each other; shift awkwardly in place for a moment. ( _Interesting . . ._ ) “Well, it’s . . . not so much a plan as . . . a collection of strategies, should certain events happen,” Ram says uncertainly.

            Tron takes over. “What to do if the command center’s compromised, if one of us is captured as the Renegade –”

            “If another User appears, or my cover in Clu’s guard is blown,” Jet adds, not-quite-glaring at Sam.

            ( _Hmm. Sounds like a story there ._ . . .)

            Sam barely manages not to make a face back at him. Alan fights back another smile as he finishes, “If Clu attacks New City or tries for the Portal again; if I succumb to the virus.” Tron’s jaw juts out in rebellious denial, and Alan’s smile turns sad. “And there’s probably a plan or three already in the works about getting me to the Portal to prevent it that I’m not allowed to know about.”

            “What – you can’t just get up ‘n go whenever you feel like it?” Sam asks through a gulp of his own.

            Alan shakes his head. “There’re times the Grid reads me more as a virus-infested Program than a User and won’t let me out of this room, let alone anywhere near the Portal. I’d have to have an escort who can finagle permissions for practically every step, plus multiple guards for both of us, which would further draw Clu’s attention.”

            “And the few times we’ve tried, something’s always pulled us back,” Tron adds with a not-quite-frown Alan’s way.

            Sam pauses mid-swallow and fingers his glass thoughtfully. “You sure it’s just the Grid keeping you here – that it’s alive enough to do such a thing, when the MCP was trying to conquer the world back in the ‘80s? It’d make better sense for the MCP to trap the User who created the Program that almost destroyed it, if it had Dad and Clu so firmly in hand already –”

            “That encounter you had downstairs, after Jet walked away but before I noticed you,” Ram says, shifting to sit on the corner of the bed. “That was the Grid saying hello. In fact, if you hadn’t done . . . whatever you did, I probably wouldn’t have sensed you until Jet introduced us.”

            “The Grid’s sentience is about the level of a Venus flytrap, and like the plant it can only react so many times before exhausting itself to death,” Tron adds, taking the seat opposite Sam with a smile. “This is good news, actually. I’ve worried that it had turned anti-User, what with Clu’s treatment of the Isos and the MCP infecting Alan.”

            Sam’s Bug, bored with the lack of attention, settles back down and ambles to Tron, who offers it a hand to sniff and rub against. Tron’s circuits brighten a touch in the exchange before it comes to greet Ram.

            “Not to say your theory doesn’t have merit,” Ram says, leaning over to reach the bug. It sneezes at him, then rises on its back legs so he can reach it easier. His circuits flicker slightly. ( _What’re you doing, Bug?_ ) “In certain places, the Grid and virus are practically synonymous by now. And we’ve never been able to backtrack and analyze the virus’s growth since its appearance.”

            Tron shakes his head and stretches his legs out, crossing them at the ankles as he says, “Either way, the question is: what do we do now?” He raises a hand and starts ticking off with his fingers. “The Portal’s been open far longer than it usually is; the MCP is in control of almost the entire Grid and is propelling Clu to the beam for reasons unknown; the command center is completely compromised now, after Sam’s meeting with the Grid; and Alan . . .” he trails off. Sighs, and lowers his hand. “Alan’s health is failing faster, even with my interventions. And we still don’t have a way to get him out of here with minimal harm – to him, _or_ what’s left of the Grid.”

            Ram pats the bed as Bug starts edging its way down to the floor again in the following silence. Bug takes the offer and jumps back onto the bed, heading straight for Alan upon seeing him. Jet again shies away from its approach. It curls up in Alan’s lap, its light pulsing like a gentle purr as Alan strokes its back.

            “We take it a step at a time,” Sam decides, though he clearly has several more questions burbling in his mind. “Get Alan to New City, where we can arrange for transport and distractions, if necessary. Then we make a dash for the Portal – as a User, I have full access to everything, right?” he says, pulling off his blanket and looking to Tron as he stands. Tron nods agreement. “Maybe I could even go a little ahead, clear the way so y’all don’t have to worry about permissions –”

            “If we don’t have to worry, Clu won’t either,” Jet warns. “He’s been making noises about wanting a User’s Disk, lately – something to do with what he and Yori got up to last week –”

            “Wait – Yori?” Sam asks, pausing mid-folding. “I thought she was dead.”

            “ _Our_ Yori is,” Tron says, sorrow and old anger mingling in his voice. “This bastardization is exactly the same, except she hates everything related to me or Users.”

            “. . . Ouch,” Sam says sympathetically. He looks down as he halves the blanket a second time. “Lora’s gonna be pissed to hear that,” he adds with a huff.

            Alan feels his mouth twitch, Tron’s mirroring him as he asks, “How is she – how’s everyone?”

            Sam nods, a grin growing as he allows the subject change. “She’s good. Still flirting with her scientist boyfriend and disgusting their ducklings with their PDAs – public displays of affection,” he explains at their confused looks, tossing the blanket over the top of the chair and taking steps to sit on the bed-corner opposite Ram. Bug’s antennae perk up and wave at him, but it doesn’t move otherwise. “Roy married a sci-fi/fantasy writer about ten years back, and they promptly popped out a couple nephews for Quorra n me to spoil rotten.

            “They made up some cockamamie story about Q being my half-sister by way of a Russian ballerina, or something, to excuse her from not knowing much of anything back in ‘89. She’s taking her time rising through the ranks at Encom, refusing to be fast-tracked into anything. So everyone loves her.

            “I took a stint in the Army after speeding through high school – saw some action, but mostly got stuck behind a desk – then started my own security company. I break in and muck around with Encom once or twice a year, just to keep everyone on their toes.

            “Dad . . .” he hesitates, looks over to Alan, who gives him a nod to continue. “Dad’s mellowed out a lot, since they found the brain tumor. He’s more Zen, less Hitler-speechifying than he was when you saw him last. He still gets excitable on occasion, but it’s usually due to other people’s katra. . . or whatever he calls it.”

            Alan exchanges a look with Tron, a tiny spark of hope flaring in his chest.

            If Flynn, the original carrier of the MCP virus, could recover from it in the User world . . . maybe Alan will have a chance, too.

            “ _Now_ will you go to the Portal?” Tron asks.

*  *  *  *  *

            _He feels the shift ages before anyone else does. By the time the ripple reaches Clu and he demands a trace to the source, Jarvis has already narrowed it down to a quirky bit of territory in the Outlands situated between the two Cities . . . an area he’d thought long abandoned; a breeding ground for gridbugs._

_How intriguing. He sends out feelers while he waits for the others to catch up, seeking out the weak points in their defenses._

_He cannot allow Alan1 or Tronzler to escape him this time_. _And if he can also capture or infect the younger Flynn, all the better. . . ._


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting this mission started is tougher than anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple oddities going on in this one - perhaps the biggest being that the second half is a result of an unwritten event from Recovery. I've attempted to drop a hint-or-three on what that was, but they may be too spread out to recognize.
> 
> That said, it appears Renegade has settled itself into the part-two-of-three slot, rather than the culmination of the entire story.

**Chapter 6**

            It takes the storm almost three hours to dissipate enough for safe travel. While they wait, Alan and Jet coach Sam through altering his Gridsuit so he doesn’t stick out as an escapee from the Games, then Sam teaches/coerces Jet into playing fetch with Bug while Alan catches an extra-long power nap (Sam may or may not briefly join him in said napping once Jet relaxes a little).

            Tron and Ram disappear to parts unknown for a while, reappearing with new batons and equipment shortly after the storm fades into a shower. They give Sam a quick verbal tour through the weapons, then everyone loads up and they hit the road.

            New City is . . . surprising, somehow. Sam doesn’t think he had any preconceived expectations about what a Grid-city would be like, but this bustling, barely-controlled chaos looks much more User-world like than the orderly A-B-C effect of the Grid he’s seen so far.

            In the ten minutes they’ve wandered the streets, Sam’s overheard snippets of conversation ranging from a train derailment to an underground race; a rave party being planned in the Square to Clu’s attempt to aggressively incorporate the City into his System a deca-cycle ago, and various Programs’ opinions for and against it.

            The occasional splash of _Tron Lives_ graffiti is pretty amusing, too – if he helped found the place, why would Programs living in it doubt Tron’s existence?

            Said Program jostles Sam’s shoulder and jerks his head towards a blinking sign he translates as _Able’s Garage_ , not waiting for Sam’s nod before crossing the street and heading inside.

            The doors are open, but the place looks deserted at first glance, though several dimly-lit vehicles and parts are still scattered around in an order that almost makes sense. No one steps out to greet them as they pull down their hoods and look around, either.

            Sam lingers by the door as Tron heads towards the office and disappears, a strange déjà vu settling in his bones as he wanders a little further in. He’s been taking care of Alan’s Ducati off and on since he was sixteen, so the garage isn’t completely alien territory for him . . . yet, this feels deeper. His fingers, still wet from the rain, trail along hoods, handlebars, headlights, and tools, the extra energy slightly brightening their glow as he tries to tease out the memory.

            He almost expects the _clank_ and voices that draw him around a tank near the back; he _is_ surprised to find a pair of Programs towering over a third, threatening him.

            “There a problem, gentlemen?” he calls.

            The pair jump back, one snarling as the other pastes on a fake grin. “Just checking in with our favorite mechanic,” he says, swinging his arm around the flinching third Program’s neck and play-choking him. “Tryin’ to convince Zed here that he’s working too hard and needs to come play with us. Can we take him?”

            “I’m just a prospective customer,” Sam says with a shrug, crossing his arms. “D’you wanna go with them?” he asks Zed.

            “I’ve got work to do,” Zed mutters. The faker tightens his grip, but Zed surges toward Sam, breaking the hold. “Is there something I can help you with?”

            “And there’s your answer, gents,” Sam says, not bothering to hide his smirk. “Better luck next time, maybe.”

            The pair grumble, but release Zed and depart as Sam shifts to stand by the smaller Program . . . who promptly grouses that he didn’t need any help as he heads for a green lightcycle.

            “Had ‘em on the ropes, did ya?” Sam asks, his smirk relaxing into a smile.

            “Are you laughing at me?” Zed snipes.

            Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, not at all. Just reminds me of a hero in a story I know.”

            “Really. A hero,” Zed says flatly.

            Sam hums agreement. “Steve’s a sickly little guy no one thinks’ll amount to much,” he muses, crouching down next to Zed. “Turns out, he’s the only one who can win the war _and_ save the world,” he murmurs like it’s a secret as he looks over the lightcycle’s engine. Zed pauses in his work, eyes reflecting a faint blue glow as he turns to look at Sam, who shrugs again. “Guess it’s just a reminder that heroes come in all shapes and sizes – and from the random-est places.”

            Zed’s eyes narrow at him. “Are you the –”

            _“Samuel!”_ Tron snaps, stomping out of the office before Zed can finish.

            Sam startles so hard he almost loses his balance. _When’s the last time I’ve been full-named?_ he wonders. “Yeah?” he calls back as he stands.

            “Time to go,” Tron growls, turning away before Sam’s halfway across the shop.

            It’s a scramble to catch up, especially when the red-circuited shop owner steps out of his office and blocks Sam’s path to ogle him like a tasty piece of meat. ( _Ew._ ) Sam sidles past, nose curling in disgust as he leaves. “Nice meeting you, Zed!” he calls before rushing off.

            Tron’s bulldozing through the populace, Programs and even a startled Sentry or two dodging out of his way as he charges forward. He hasn’t bothered to pull his hood back up, the misting rain making his circuits shine all the brighter through his cloak. And once Sam manages to dog his heels, Tron takes a twisting, circuitous route through the City, the growl emanating from his throat getting louder as the city noise lessens.

            Sam tries and fails not to shiver at the sound, remembering Dad and Roy’s tales of Alan’s rapier-sharp tongue when someone – usually Dad – really pissed him off.

            They stop suddenly in a corner of the city empty of Programs, but full of rubble ( _under construction, maybe?_ ) where Tron drops his cloak and moves a few more steps closer to the shoreline of a lake. His circuits are flickering between red and white like a demented candy cane, the growl developing a resonance of hungry predators about to leap to their feast.

            Fight-or-flight isn’t an option, so Sam freezes. He watches and waits, barely daring to breathe as the redness develops a slight orange tint and the growl become more prominent, Tron’s hands fisting as he gazes sightlessly over the water.

            Then he yells, fist slamming to the ground. Power shoots out, dusty earth crackling as Sam stumbles over the tidal wave radiating from him.

Everything is silent for an endless heartbeat, then Tron gasps in a lungful of air. Another; the flickering red and growl fading away as he takes a steadier third.

            “What’d I do this time?” tumbles out of Sam’s mouth without permission, a tiny, scared thing.

            Tron huffs a breathless laugh, wobbling a little drunkenly as he answers, “Nothing. This isn’t about you, Sam.”

            “Why’d you full-name me, then?”

            Tron stands; wobbles again. “’S the safest part of your name I could use,” he slurs.

            Multiple red dots appear along the horizon, quickly growing bigger before Sam can ask any more questions. Alarmed, Sam snatches up Tron’s cloak and slings it back over him. A brief, frantic touch with the Grid, and he _wills_ them invisible, their circuits turning deep blue as they stagger away from the epicenter. Sam pins Tron next to him against the City-side face of a boulder just as a Recognizer comes roaring overhead; he holds his breath as the searchlight dances sightlessly over them. It lingers briefly, its light bouncing over the rocks around them multiple times, then moves on to join the other half-dozen Recognizers circling the area.

            Sam doesn’t relax until Tron’s walking steady again and they’re back among the milling crowds of the City. H releases a slow breath, the tingle in his fingers easing as he imagines them becoming visible again.

            “Too close,” he decides, glancing behind them and watching their circuits fade back to white again. “ _Way_ too close. Let’s not do that again anytime soon.”

            Tron nods, circuits briefly flashing violet with embarrassment under his cloak, and they turn for Jet-and-Beck’s apartment. He barely waits for the door to close before dropping the bomb. “Able’s dead. Has been for cycles. And Beck hasn’t deigned to tell me.”

            Ram’s jaw drops open, but he quickly recovers. “He’s been under a lot of stress lately. Ever since Tessler got hold of his Disk, he’s been almost-obsessively protective of his friends. And with that pseudo-Renegade mucking up his own work, he’s been –”

            “Working quietly under Pavel? Flirting with Paige? Avoiding the one Program who knows what it’s like to be so deeply screwed with?”

            Silence. Jet rises to his feet with a scowl. “Are you suggesting my brother’s betrayed us?”

            Tron sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s developing a headache. “No. We’d all be long dead if he had. I just don’t understand why –”

            “It’s not logical,” Sam agrees. “But it’s very human.” The other four turn to stare at him. Sam shrugs, shifting his weight. “Um. Obviously, I haven’t seen him since he was practically a newborn. But at a guess?” His eyes flick between Alan and Tron. “I’d say he’s afraid of disappointing you. And that includes asking for help.”

            It takes a minute for the Programs and other User to process that, then Alan huffs a chuckle. “From out the mouths of babes,” he murmurs before nodding. “You show wisdom beyond your years, Sam Flynn.”

            Sam ducks his head, fighting a blush and hiding a smile as his feet shuffle against the floor. “Tell my sister that,” he mutters shyly.

            “That begs a question, though: What now?” Alan asks, turning to the others. “We still need transport to the Portal, and even with Sam’s help, I won’t be able to code up anything big enough for all of us in the time we have left.” ( _Assuming it’ll even work_ goes unsaid. Alan had tried inspecting the coding Sam put into Bug before they left the command center and declared it a Gordian knot even wackier than Flynn’s natural coding habits. Trying to combine his virus-riddled coding and Sam’s extra-squirrelly tech would probably make the Grid a nuclear wasteland. At _best_.)

            “Castor’s still friendly,” Jet says after a long moment, still eyeing Tron, “and he has even more resources –”

            “A pointless query.” Ram shakes his head. “Unless he’s visiting New City, we’d still have the problem of transport – and if we found one to get to him, why not just turn it to the Portal instead?”

            “He _was_ scheduled to be here during this millicycle,” Jet rolls his eyes. “He was my cover to get Jarrex home, remember?” Ram blanches at the reminder. “At most, Sam’s appearance at the Games and the following storm only delayed his departure – he should be here now, ostensibly checking over his satellite clubs –”

            “He was on the verge of betraying the Resistance when Alan came to us twenty years ago,” Tron protests. “He’s desperate and power hungry and won’t be able to resist turning all of us in to make his life easier, even if it risks exposing Gem and Anon.”

            “Do we have other options?” Sam asks, cutting off the argument before it can heat up any further.

            The silence is only answered by Tron’s protracted sigh and slumping shoulders, his slight head shake hardly necessary to seal his response.

            “Alright, then,” Sam says, taking a deep breath as he turns Jet’s way. “How do we find this Castor guy?”

*  *  *  *  *

            She smiles as the little _TRON_ toy lights up in her hands, ignoring the drive to fight and destroy who it symbolizes. “He fights for the Users,” she hums to herself instead, thumb rubbing at the flaking paint. A vague sadness and love fills her chest as she releases the button, her head aching as she sets the toy aside to continue searching the command center.

            The place feels . . . _dead_ , though the word doesn’t quite compute. It’s clearly not derezzed, since she’s walking around in it, but the expectation of life, movement, _possibility_ is gone. The Grid itself seems to have abandoned the place, with TRON being the liveliest thing still within –

            She shrieks and lurches back when a yellow-white creature climbs up onto the desk she’s pivoting around, the tips of its antennae dancing out a query. _Cockroach_ , her panicking mind supplies. _Very **large** cockroach_.

            It raises its front legs, adding new depth to its query when she doesn’t answer.

            [You Hurt. Need Help?]

            Somehow, the question calms her. She stops pressing herself against the opposite desk, eyeing the creature as she processes.

            [I Bug. Who you?]

            “Yori,” she answers, at a loss for how – and _why_ – a gridbug that can communicate with Programs would be created. _What’s the purpose?_ “My name’s Yori.”

            Bug claps its forelegs, its other four dancing in place like it’s excited. [Hi, Yori!] It settles down again a moment later. [Yori Hurt. Bug Help?]

            Yori presses a hand to her chest and looks herself over. _How am I hurt?_ she wonders, seeing nothing. “How’d you get here,” she asks instead. “Who made you?”

            [Made here. Maker Sam Flynn.] It reaches a foreleg out to her. [Bug Help Yori?]

            The words barely process as she clutches at her head and falls to her knees, her dual natures shrieking back into the foreground. _Sammy’s back? // **Murder Fight Kill** // That’s why the Portal’s still open // **Illegal User on the Grid** // Protect. Keep them safe. **Get them** **out!**_

            [Bug Help Yori?], she hears Bug ask again through the painful static.

            “Yeah, okay,” she gasps, blindly reaching for Bug’s foreleg. Power flows into her circuits like a cool drink of water the moment she touches it; antennae dancing over the circuits in her forearm somehow easing the ache in her skull.

            She blinks awake again what feels like a moment later, feeling . . . whole. At peace with herself for the first time since her Resolution here. She finds herself siting on the floor and leaning against a desk; feels a slight pressure on each shoulder as something pitter-pats over her hair. She looks up, unalarmed at the softly crunching mandibles and multifaceted eyes staring down at her.

            [Yori Better?], Bug’s antennae ask.

            “Yes,” she breathes. “Much better. Thank you.”

            Bug scrambles back up onto the desk to clap to itself again. Yori chuckles as she stands – - and sways as the room swishes around her. She presses a hand to the table, the cool-water sensation drawing her eyes to where Bug has pressed a foreleg to her hand, its antennae dancing out a wordless query –

            Her circuitry has changed – not its shape, but the coloring. What had always been a brilliant white now holds a faint touch of green.

            She runs a quick diagnostic, and is unsurprised to discover that the drive to destroy anything related to Users or Tron has disappeared. In its place are flickering memories of sunlight and friendship; longing and duty; a little girl with big bright eyes, and a younger boy who can’t stop bouncing on his toes; twins with a knack for finding trouble, and a father who’s dying.

            She remembers fighting in the Games; what it was like to kiss Tron, and how she laughed at his scowl when she told him Flynn taught her how to do it.

            “I’m okay,” she says as the world steadies out again, more to herself than Bug. She pulls her hand away for the third time, staring at the green in wonder. “You fixed me.”

            Bug sits back on its haunches with an air of smug accomplishment. [Bug Fix Yori], it says, rear shimmying with joy.

            _You need a tail to wag_ , she almost says. “Where is everyone?” she asks instead. “I didn’t think Alan could –”

            Power bursts into the elevator, calling it down with a grinding groan.

            “ _Hide_ ,” she hisses at Bug, who scurries away as she draws her Disk and angles herself to greet the Programs on the elevator as it rises.

            Yori doesn’t know if she should be relieved or horrified to see it’s just Beck and Gem walking into the command center – _she_ shouldn’t be here at all, and _he_ only comes home for training or if the situation’s gotten truly dire.

            “Greetings,” she calls, making both Programs jump. “How may I be of service?”

            “How’d you get – who are you?” Beck scrambles to ask, his Disk lighting.

            “I am Yori,” she says, choosing to ignore Beck’s slip-up as she pointedly puts her own Disk away. “My mate left a communication instructing me to come to these coordinates if he was not home by the time I rebooted.” (A lie. Jarrex never would’ve risked her attacking Alan or his commander again . . . but would Beck know that?) “I have found no answers. What brings you here?”

            “My roommate left me a similar communication,” Beck lies back, still eyeing her as his Disk eases from attack position.

            “Clu has Rectified my mate and rendered our home inoperable,” Gem says, eyes darting about fearfully. “I have come seeking help.”

            “It seems we have a common purpose, then,” Yori says with a nod, then plays dumb. “What is this place, anyway?”

            “It used to be the command center for the Resistance,” Gem tells her as Beck tenses up again. “I had hoped that the User or one of his aids might still be here.” She reaches out to a desk as Yori and Beck both frown at her – the Iso should really know better than to spout such information, no matter how old it might be – “It appears I was wrong,” she confesses when the desk doesn’t respond to her touch.

            “Maybe I can finagle something,” Beck says, still watching Yori warily as he finally deactivates and puts his Disk away. He pulls out Bodhi’s recoding tool in its place. “I have a knack with mechanical things.” He puts the tool on the desk, then leans on it with his other hand.

            Access granted, the desk lights up, and Yori bites back a smile. It’s a nice bit of sleight-of-hand, if you don’t know the real trick.

            They gather around the desk as images start flashing: a young man with short, dirty-blond hair; dogtags with _Flynn, Samuel A._ written on them (Yori hears Gem breathe _“They found him”_ ); a Disk flying past Clu’s snarling face; schematics of a ship that gives Yori chills to look at –

            Movement out the corner of her eye makes Yori glance away – and almost choke on a laugh when she sees Bug holding a lit TRON on the back of its neck with one antenna while the other dances out an inquiry. She shakes her head, and Bug ducks back into hiding just as Beck gasps.

            “They’re going to gas New City tonight,” Beck says, horrified. “Turn everyone loyal to Clu whether they’re willing or not.”

            “Is that a bad thing?” falls out of Yori’s mouth before she can pull it back. “That means all the fighting and killing will end, right?”

            “The killing will continue,” Gem corrects her.

            “Only no one’ll be able to care,” Beck finishes. He straightens, the cycling images dying as his hand leaves the desk. “We have to stop them.”

            “How?” Gem asks. “There’s only three of us.”

            Something roars overhead before Beck or Yori can respond, and they all rush out to the plateau to see a monstrous ship sailing through the skies above. They watch as a smaller piece – a Recognizer, perhaps? – detaches from the ship, descending towards them.

            Yori’s resisting the urge to quip about _finding_ _an army for rent_ when a blast of energy pulverizes all three of them, and they fall limp to the ground.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

_“Yori.”_

_She wakes – what might be hours later – to a voice that fills her with equal parts dread and rage, but doesn’t let it show as she sits up to face the golden Program. “Greetings,” she says through her headache. “How may I be of service?”_

_Clu grins._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working my way through Chapter 15, now. Depending on how much torture I wanna put in, I think it might be the last one. There's an Epilogue as well, though if you hate cliffhangers, you might wanna avoid reading it 'til Part 3 is on a roll. *cue evil laughter*


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new Game begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know the song, here's a video with the lyrics. :-D https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOQ4pkUAFbA 
> 
> Happy reading, y'all!

**Chapter 7**

            _Where’s a freakin’ Solar Sailer when you need one_ , Sam thinks, scowling as he trails Jet out of their third club. He feels utterly useless on this mission – though even the minor action of following Jet in and out of bars has to be far more interesting that sitting around with Alan and the others, hiding while they wait for news – and the ever-growing crowds are not helping his disposition as more and more Programs seem determined to bump into him, spill whatever they’re drinking _on_ him, then slur curses at him for giving _them_ trouble.

            Case in point: a blue-circuited female wobbles badly enough as he passes that Sam reaches out to catch and steady her, her drink splashing on him in the effort. Her thank-you comes out as an insult, then she fumbles away, loudly complaining about the bit-brain who probably drugged her drink while her equally-drunk (and extra-giggly) friend bats flirty eyes at him.

            Sam bites back his frustration and continues in his endeavor to catch up with Jet – who not only seems to have no trouble swimming upstream among the masses, but can do so without getting a drop spilled on him. Unlike Tron earlier, Jet has at least noticed he’s lost his tail and is peering over the crowds, trying to spot Sam.

            “Is New City normally this packed?” Sam asks when they meet up again.

            “No,” Jet half-shouts over the rumble of a tank passing by, shaking his head before ducking it closer to Sam’s ear. “It’s a bi-annual celebration. The earlier one’s for the birth of the Grid, and tends to be more solemn. This one’s in memory of Alan beating Clu and the creation of New City, though most don’t remember the first part of it anymore.”

            _Sounds like Memorial Day_ , Sam thinks sourly, but instead asks, “Where-to next?”

            “Geo heard him mention heading to the I/O Tower club next. It’s just off the City Square, so keep close. Crowding will only get worse from here.”

            _Finally, some good news_ , Sam doesn’t snark as Jet marches on. It’s not Jet’s fault that the Portal’s due to close in just over two hours, and this Castor guy’s been jackrabbiting willy-nilly through his clubs here in no discernable pattern.

            He tries to take a deep breath and release some of his frustration, without success. It’s just . . . between Tron’s warnings earlier and the rumor that at least two of Castor’s clubs were sacked by Clu’s Sentries shortly after the Program left, Sam’s confidence in this plan has waned drastically. If anything, he’s only gotten more leery of it the more he has time to think about it, but he still hasn’t heard any better solutions. Which leaves Sam tagging along with Jet into their fourth club of the evening, where they take a walking survey of the room and the Programs in it before Jet abandons him at the bar. Again. For the fourth time. Sam tries not to thunk his head against the bar-top in frustration –

            “What can I get you?” one of the bartenders asks.

            Sam sits up and plasters on a smile. “Hell, I ain’t picky,” he stalls, once again trying to pick up the differences between the slightly-blue and slightly-green carafes lining the bar’s inner sanctum. He gives up and looks to her for guidance as the silence drags. “How ‘bout a sample of your favorite?”

            She snorts and pulls a carafe of green energy from under the bar, pouring it into a glass she pushes in front of him. “Special House blend for the party,” she says, already heading for her next customer.

            The smile drops off Sam’s face as his shoulders slump. He picks up the glass and swishes the liquid inside, trying to gussy up interest in his fourth round of ‘special House blend’ –

            It smells funny. It’s faint, but sort of like the wet-dog smell that still gives Quorra migraines. _No, scratch that_ , he thinks as he snorts out the scent and takes another whiff. _It **smells**_ _– a sense that doesn’t translate in computers. Even **The Matrix** got that right_. He lowers the glass back to the bar, wary of having any of the liquid splash on him. He slips off his stool –

            And his gaze snags on a Sentry across the way, whose head slowly tilts at him, circuits developing a slight orange tinge as they stare at each other.

            Alarm bells go off in Sam’s head, and his breath catches. _Get Jet – Get out_ , he tells himself, slowly backing away until the club’s masses envelop him again. He forces himself to take another circuit of the club, war-trained senses on high alert as he spies out potential enemies and alternate exits.

            _Get Jet – Get out_ becomes his mantra once he spots his erstwhile target hobnobbing with some other Programs on the other side of the room, acting no different from the previous three clubs. Sam sighs out his relief and starts winding his way there.

            _Get Jet – Get out_ his heart pounds at him by the time he reaches Jet, grabbing his arm ten feet away from an Iso twirling a glowing cane around like he’s the ringmaster of a circus.

            “We need to go,” he tells Jet.

            “We will,” Jet assures him, gesturing at the Iso. “As soon as I –”

            Sam shakes his head, grip spasming tighter as he says, “We need to go _now_.”

            Jet’s brow wrinkles, a question forming on his lips – then he stiffens, his shoulder slamming into Sam’s as he reverses his course, hands fisting at his sides as he heads for the elevator.

            The contact jars Sam out of his anxiety for a moment, and he glances around for anyone paying them undue atten- –

            The Iso’s cane has stopped spinning. He’s watching Sam, completely ignoring the irritated Program he’s been taking to. Cane tilted on one shoulder, he lowers his head and bats his eyes coyly at Sam as a come-hither smirk grows on his mouth.

            Something – maybe in the angle of the light – makes his eyes glow a dull red as he stares at Sam.

            _Quorra’s eyes’ve never done that_ , Sam thinks, shivering as he turns to follow Jet to the elevator, his gut twisting and screaming _Get out – Get out – **Get out**_ at him the entire way.

            “Don’t you _ever_ do this to me again,” Jet snarls once the doors close and they’re on their way down.

            “Do wha- –” Sam glances at him. Notes the stiff limbs, and feels the rage flowing off the Program . . . _Crap_. “I ordered you?”

            Jet glares his answer.

            _“Shit.”_ Sam scrubs a shaking hand through his hair, trying to disperse the panic still coursing through him. “’m sorry, man. Didn’t mean to. I just –”

            The elevator slows to a stop and starts to rise again, though they’re a good dozen floors away by now. Sam slams his hand against a wall, forcing it to ignore the call.

            _“Sam –”_

            “I think a Sentry recognized me,” Sam tells him. “Between that, the smelly energy they’re selling, and your friend’s _Terminator_ eyes, I think it’s safe to say this was a trap, not an escape hatch.” He feels another tug on the elevator and pushes it to go faster instead. Then startles when the City level where it should come to a stop on instead opens beneath them . . . and the one below that . . . and the one after that. “The hell?” he breathes, turns to Jet. “How deep does this go – _Where_ does it go?”

            “The old City has passages like this,” Jet murmurs, the anger chilled in his voice as he steps toward the glass and looks out into the cavern they’re suddenly traveling through. “Programs disappear here, and Sentries come out.” A red-lined Recognizer passes feet away from them as their elevator slows again, finally reaching the lowest ground. Jet pulls away from the glass with a jerk. “Mask up. Turn your circuitry red.”

            Sam easily mimics the first half of Jet’s directions, but the Grid refuses to help him with the second. “No-go on camouflage; going invisible,” he says, circuits shifting to deep-blue without trouble.

            “Invisible doesn’t mean mute,” Jet warns in a grumble as the doors open; he squints Sam’s way as his helmet comes up, then turns and walks out.    

            Sam answers by invading the Program’s personal bubble and thumping his lower back in acknowledgement when he stops a couple strides out of the elevator. The last bit of tension eases from Jet’s shoulders at the contact and, after a brief glance around, they move into a maze of stacking containers. Jet seems to know what he’s doing, keeping his pace calm but purposeful and somehow managing to never run into any other guards roaming the grounds. Sam’s mostly content to follow, figuring the Program knows how to slip back up to the City without drawing any unwanted interest as they expl- –

            A tingling sensation catches Sam’s attention as they cross an intersection near where they’re loading the containers onto a Solar Sailer. ( _Oh, **there** it is. Figures._ ) He snags Jet’s arm, tugging it slightly. Thankfully, the Program doesn’t argue – only hesitates long enough for Sam to tug at him again before following.

            The tingling gets stronger as they take a few more turns and chase it to a pod – too small to be a container – set apart from the others. Sam presses a hand to the glass, Jet quickly mimicking him out the corner of his eye as the pod lights up . . . and Sam’s breath catches.

            Jarrex. Rogan. At least a half-dozen other faces that look vaguely familiar. They’re all standing completely still, seemingly dead to the world, their circuitry glowing a dull rust color.

            Even through the mask, Sam can feel Jet’s questioning look. “They’re all from my Recognizer,” Sam whispers to him. “Why’re they separated from the rest?”

            Jet shakes his head faintly, turning back to the –

            “MOVE ALONG, PROGRAM,” a Sentry says from above as it approaches them. “NO TIME FOR GAUKING.”

            Jet’s hand knocks Sam’s down, the pod’s lights turning off at the loss of contact as he nods at the Sentry. Then he herds Sam away, back into the milieu of containers before retaking the lead and guiding him into an alcove where his own circuits shift to dark blue. “We can’t help them right now, Sam,” he says through his mask. “I don’t want to abandon them either, but we can’t rescue them _and_ save Alan –”

            “I know,” Sam says, rubbing at his arms as a chill passes through him. “I’m not gonna argue or do something stu-” A Recognizer roars overhead, startling them both as they watch it slot into a space on the opposite wall and shut down. “ . . . stupid.” Sam finishes, a new idea forming. “Is there any reason a Recognizer can’t get us to the Portal?” he asks in a rush.

            “Aside from getting hold of one, no –” Jet stills, then shifts enough to block Sam’s exit from the alcove. “What are you thinking?”

            “New plan.” Sam says, shaking off the chill. “I make a distraction while you swipe a Recognizer and pick the others up, then you come grab me and we head for the Portal –”

            Jet’s already shaking his head. “Too dangerous. You’re assuming Clu doesn’t have standing orders to dere- kill you on sight –”

            “One,” Sam says, holding up a finger, “ _you’re_ assuming they’ll know it’s me they’re chasing.” He pokes at Jet’s chest. “Two: even if they figure it out, you think Clu can resist rewriting history on the day celebrating when a User beat him at his own game?”

            Silence. (It’s probably a good thing their masks are up – Sam’s not able to see it, but he’s still fighting back a maybe-slightly-hysterical snicker at what he suspects is Jet’s impression of a fish.)

            “I’ll give you thirty seconds to get back into pattern,” Sam decides, pressing Jet to one side so they’re equally in the space again. “Then I’ll make my splash. Once you’ve slipped away, I’ll head for the surface, ‘kay?”

            Jet’s head lowers, a soft _“Shit”_ slipping out, but he doesn’t respond otherwise.

            “Jet?” Sam asks, leaning towards him (which is kinda stupid, since he’s pretty sure the Program can’t really see him in invisible mode). “I’ll be careful. Won’t pull my mask down for anything, even if Clu’s standing right there –”

            “And he might be,” Jet says, weight shifting uneasily. “I’m not sure on the how or when, but I intercepted plans about using some kind of air-based weapon on the Programs of New City sometime during the celebrations – Clu’s second attempt at taking over everything – and he’ll be arriving near the end to see how well it’s succeeded.” He lifts his head. “I was looking for more information to send along with Jarrex when you showed up.”

            _Shiiit_ , Sam thinks, shoulders slumping as he thumps his head against the wall. _Yeah, I’d be pissy too, if I had to stop saving the world to protect a preening dumbass . . . which puts Coulson in a whole new light._ He straightens up; shakes his head to clear it. “I’ll keep it in mind.” He glances up as another Recognizer passes by overhead. “Any other questions or concerns?”

            Jet reluctantly shakes his head.

            “Alright. Thirty seconds start when you’re ready.” They watch and wait for a few more heartbeats until a blank space opens in the guards’ paths, then Jet wrenches himself out of the alcove. Sam holds off on his countdown until Jet’s circuitry shifts back to red, breathing a sigh of relief as Jet disappears among the containers again, with no alarms going off.

            Sam spends the leeway time by connecting to the Grid – surprisingly difficult down here, where the Grid should be at its strongest – and fleshing out his plan while he keeps track of Jet’s progress. As the seconds wind down, he readies himself for a run and gives the Grid another string-pluck to clue-in the guards that something’s up. Then he shoots out, circuits streaking between blue and white like a lightning bug as he takes random turns through the containers.

            He quickly gathers followers, and it’s a struggle not to get cocky as more and more Sentries start tailing him. He challenges himself to stay focused by streaking close to whatever area Jet’s in a couple times without getting close enough to cross their paths. He occasionally adds another energy-jolt to the Grid, too, trying to revive it a little.

            That _really_ seems to annoy the guards, for some reason. He makes it part of his repertoire.

            He can’t resist sending the Sentry on Jarrex-and-Rogan’s pod a raspberry and extra energy bump as he passes. The pod lights up with the boost, and Sam thinks he might even see someone inside blink awake as he turns to watch where he’s going again.

            The guards are starting to collaborate and hem him in when Jet finally reaches the Recognizer caches. Sam goes dark and climbs up on one of the rare unstacked containers to watch them mill around below him for a few minutes. On impulse, he creates a ball of coding he can toss from hand to hand while he waits and his heartrate settles, debating his next move.

            Then a Recognizer turns cloaked-blue and detaches from the far wall.

            _Break-time’s up_ , Sam thinks as he stands and lobs his ball a couple lanes over. About a third of his fan club jump up to chase down the energy spike. ( _Huh._ ) He forms another one, angles a little differently, and throws it a few more lanes down. Another third disperses. _Damn, y’all’re getting smart_. He makes a third one and turns again, but something wrenches in his back on the swing, and the ball splats on the far corner of the container adjacent to his.

            The container lights up, the Programs inside jerking around as the code works through their systems.

            Sam winces, but can’t risk staying to help them or see what happens. Instead, he turns and bounds for the nearest elevator, letting his circuits flash white a couple more times before he slides in and forces it to head up.

            Of course, all traffic has been shut down – in-bound _and_ out-bound – by now, so the Sentries quickly catch onto where he is, even though they can’t see him standing in the elevator.

            He pushes the elevator faster as they scramble to catch up, shooting his berserker coding out ahead of his path so they’re forced to release their own shut-down locks to chase him, hopefully unaware that they’re letting Jet’s cloaked Recognizer slip free in the process.

            Sam allows himself a sigh of relief as he reaches the City surface – only to catch his breath again when the elevator releases him into a Mardi Gras-like riot of noise, color, and dancing Programs seconds before a strange reddish mist settles over the crowd gathered in the Square for the party.

            Everything goes eerily quiet and still for a few moments. Sam picks his uneasy way through the crowd, shivering as he watches their pupils dilate and develop a red glow. The buildings around the Square fall static, blinking out one by one until everyone – Sam included – is facing the last one, waiting with bated breath for whatever comes next.

            _Just your typical Tuesday morning_ , he thinks, glancing around as the building also blanks out, but doesn’t shut down like the others. _Until the planes become bombs_. His teeth grit, hands squeezing into fists at the thought.

            A single, stylized **_CLU_** flashes onto the building, the word radiating out to the others as the crowd picks up the chant.

            _“Clu . . . Clu . . . Clu.”_

            The chill from downstairs races up Sam’s spine when he sees Sentries closing in on the crowd.

            _“Clu. Clu. Clu.”_

            He backs up a few steps, trying to melt out of the crowd as he prepares for a new chase –

            _“Clu! Clu! Clu!”_

            – a golden dot on the horizon snags his attention as he turns, and any half-formed plans to abandon these Programs to their fate disappears with a soft, _“Oh, **hell** no,”_ as he watches the dot grow larger. He turns back, heading for the Square’s center as the racket continues to rise.

            **_“CLU! CLU! CLU!”_**

            – rings in his ears, making his head ache as he kneels down and yanks out the power to the buildings, plunging everything into darkness.

            The Programs go still and mostly silent again, with a few along the outer edges still having enough autonomy to whisper questions amongst themselves as Sam presses his other hand to the ground, using himself like a dialysis machine to cleanse the energy as he takes a deep breath – _Let’s reenact a little history_ , he thinks for a wild heartbeat – and opens his mouth.

            _“Oh, Mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law,”_ he sings, letting clean energy and light pulse out from him with each of the [ ** _bum, baa-dum, baa-dum_** ]s.

            _“Law-man has put an end to my runnin’, and I’m so far from my home”_

            [ ** _bum, baa-dum, baa-dum_** ]

            He can feel Programs close by turning toward him, seeking him out as he rises to his feet and projects his voice into the buildings:

            _“Oh, Mama, I can hear you a-cryin’, you’re so scared an’ all alone”_

            [ ** _bum, baa-dum, baa-dum_** ]

            _“Hang-man is comin’ down from the gallows, an’ I don’t have very long”_

            Sam spins, letting the power spiral out from him and bleach his armor and circuits white as he yells, _“OHHHH!_

_“The jig is up, the news is out, they’ve finally found me!_

_The Renegade – who had it made – retrieved for a bounty!_

_Nevermore to go astray,_

_This will be the end today_

_Of the wanted man.”_

            (He doesn’t have time to feel ridiculous, feeding all the energy he can into the Square as he burns out the poison and makes the buildings flash like the light gauge on an old stereo. He uses every dance move he can think of to make the guards focus on him as they close in.)

            _“Oh, Mama, I’ve been years on the lam_

_An’ have a HIGH price on my head!”_

            (Feeling high on power, Sam starts reaching out through the Grid, seeking for the weapon Jet told him about.)

            _“Law-man said ‘get ‘im dead or alive’_

_An’ I was for-sure he’ll see me dead”_

            (Several Programs in the crowd have caught the rhythm, tapping toes and bobbing heads and starting to sway to the beat as they watch him. It slows the guards down a bit, but not enough to turn them violent . . . yet.)

            _“Dear Mama, I can hear you a-crying,_

_So scared an’ all alone!”_

            (The weapon’s not at ground level. He tries reaching up instead as he points –)

            _“Hang-man is comin’ down from the gallows,_

_An’ I don’t have very long.”_

            ( _There._ He breaks into the chorus again with a splash of sparks as the machine blows in sections.)

            _“The jig is up, the news is out, they’ve finally found me!_

_The Renegade – who had it made – retrieved for a bounty!”_

            (He reaches further and senses more machines, spread throughout the City. He blows them up by sections, too.)

            _“Nevermore to go astray,_

_The judge will have revenge today_

_On the wanted man.”_

            He starts pulling back in as he plays along to the guitar solo, so caught up in the music he doesn’t really care about losing track of the guards slowly surrounding him. Almost like they know the song, a guard zaps a staff at him just as the solo shifts rhythm, making the sound stutter when he jumps from the pain. Sam pushes the music through anyway as they arrest him, noticing nearby Programs shying away and quieting again. ( _At least they’re free again to make_ _that choice_ , he thinks.) A corridor of Programs opens as the guards lead him away. For reasons he can’t pinpoint, Sam’s gaze catches on a female with a swoop of heavy bangs as he passes. The music breaks, and she smirks his way; raises her hands overhead to clap as she sings

            _“Oh, Mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law!”_

            Someone else adds the drum relish as others join in.

            _“Hang-man is comin’ down from the gallows,_

_An’ I don’t have very long!”_

            _If nothing else, I’ve taught you some good music_ , Sam thinks, grinning breathlessly behind his mask as Programs sing through the chorus again and the guards shove him into a waiting tank.

            _Now, to phase two of the Something Stupid plan_ , he thinks as the doors slam shut.

*  *  *  *  *

_Tron has gotten more and more still as time passes without word. He’s down to staring sightlessly out the main window and rubbing the fingers of one hand together as he worries._

_Offering a sparring session isn’t going to work this time around. **I’ll have to be more creative** , Ram thinks as he approaches. “Do you know what price Jet’ll have to pay Mercury for letting us use her unit?” he asks._

_Tron’s fingers stop moving, his mouth twitching. “They’re mated. Whatever he’s agreed to, it’ll no doubt be steep and horrible.”_

_They share a chuckle that quickly dies._

_“Is it the lack of time or lack of information that’s bothering you?”_

_Tron’s teeth grit. “Both. And neither. Gem and Anon will want to help us, I’m sure. But I can’t decide if that’ll sway Castor for or against us more, let alone what he’ll do about it.”_

_“Hey,” Ram says in mock offence as he turns to face Tron, playfully poking at his best friend’s side. “Long-term planning’s my schtick, remember?”_

_“Yeah, but strategies are mine,” Tron says with a dry smirk. “And there are too many unknowns for my liking.”_

_“Like what?” Ram asks, leaning on the glass and propping a foot against it as his arms cross. “Walk me through it.”_

_Tron’s mouth opens, but his eyes snag on something over Ram’s shoulder before he speaks. “There’s a cloaked Recognizer heading our way,” he murmurs instead._

_“I can see why that would be confusing,” Ram deadpans, dropping his more-casual stance. He glances outside as he pats Tron’s shoulder, but only sees the expect blank space. “Let me know when you’re ready to be serious about whatever we’re discussing.” He heads back towards Alan’s room, unable to fight something he can’t see._

_Tron plays along, easily recognizing the ruse. “Ram, I’m not –”_

_Ram raises his hand to cut him off, and they both freeze at the ping._

_[Uncle?] Jet’s silent voice calls. They both accept and acknowledge without a second’s thought. [Is **Terminator** the story with the invisible jungle monster, or the alien with two mouths?]_

_“ **Neither** ,” they both answer, but Tron continues, “It’s the one where an evil machine empire attempts to kill the leader of the rebellious humans before his conception.”_

_[Oh, right. The stupid one.] Jet sighs over the line. [That . . . doesn’t bode well.]_

_Something explodes over the Square before either of them can pursue an inquiry. Then other explosions go off, exposing a red haze that has covered the City at ground level._

_“Jet . . . where’s Sam?” Ram asks as he approaches the window again._

_Jet growls before not-answering, [Looks like I’ll have to explain on the run. Get your masks up and I’ll meet you on the roof.]_

_If Tron’s gaze is any indication, the cloaked Recognizer flies up toward said roof. “Why do I suspect that Sam’s pulled a Flynn?” Ram asks._

_“Probably ‘cause they’re related,” Tron says, mouth a flat line as he joins Ram in retrieving Alan from the innermost room. “Between Clu and the boys, we should be able to predict their kind of chaos by now.”_

 


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to play Lightcycles?

  **Chapter 8**

            _He sighs and props his feet up on his desk as his call rings through to voicemail again. “If you would just answer your phone, Q, I could tell you that Sam’s not going anywhere – **if** he’s at the arcade at all. At worse, he’s sitting at the desk wondering why nothing’s happened. We made the laser a one-way transporter years ago – Roy and Lora insisted on it when you were kids. Alan can get out, if he’s still alive in there, but no one can go **in**.” As though summoned, Roy steps into his office with a huge bowl of popcorn under one arm. A shiver inexplicably passes through him at the sight. “Don’t do anything stupid, kiddo,” he adds just before her voicemail cuts him off. “By some miracle, you didn’t inherit that gene.”_

_“Thank God,” Roy half-jokes, setting the popcorn down before taking his own seat again. “You Flynns are crazy enough as it is – and I think the Army only made Sam **worse**.”_

*  *  *  *  *

            The guards are leery of him, hovering around him at just barely arm’s reach. Sam tries to play as Program-like as possible – every form of the Renegade _is_ a Program, after all, and he doesn’t know if-or-when he wants to come out as a User – but he just doesn’t have it in him to be as still as one. Too much energy still zinging around in his veins, maybe, which probably means he’s going to crash horribly later.

            He curls his toes in his boots to keep his knees from bouncing; squeezes his cuffed hands together periodically to keep them out of trouble. He bites his lip behind his mask to keep the music from bubbling out of him again. He looks around for a distraction, but red-circuited Sentries can’t stay interesting for long. (A couple might have that slightly-orange tint like the guard at Castor’s club – hard to tell through his mask – and Sam wonders if it’s a sign of seniority, or something.)

            He feels the tank slow down a little, and Sam leans forward to see where they’re going; a guard’s beam katana zaps him for it before he can identify the building they’re approaching.

            A roaring sound is emanating from it when the guards pull him out of the tank. He stiffens, dragging his feet a little as he tries to name it.

            “ _Greetings, Programs_ ,” a voice booms as they enter a side door. Sam relaxes once he recognizes the roar as a multitude of yelling voices. “ _Oh, what an auspicious occasion we have for you today_ ,” the voice continues through speakers above them, Sam’s guards waving off the white-suited Isos approaching them. “ _Because the rumors you’ve heard **are** true_ ,” he says as Sam-and-company step into a broad, flat arena. “We have indeed captured _the RENEGADE_!”

            A familiar Program gestures Sam’s way as the crowd boos on cue. Sam’s mouth quirks, recognizing the super-pale bald guy once they get close enough. _Nice theatrics_ , he thinks, chewing at his lip to keep the laughter in. _Too bad I’m not trembling in my boots over it._

            “This . . . _terrorist_ has plagued your fair City for far too many cycles, causing blackouts and train wrecks and general anarchy, claiming all the while that he stood with our beloved lost Tron!” Bald Guy goes on, angering the crowd.

            “ _Tron Lives_ ,” Sam mutters, nodding to himself as he understands the slogan. A guard tightens its grip on his arm. He ignores it.

            “Our Sentries caught him in the act of poisoning the citizens of your City during your celebrations . . . but what to do with him now? Can anyone challenge such a _singular_ opponent? Has anyone experience with _quelling_ a rebellion like this?”

            Golden fireworks go off; Sam’s guards pull him to a stop near the center of the arena and step away. The crowd jumps to its feet with a roar as a familiar ship descends from the sky and Bald Guy starts listing off his pet names for Clu.

            Sam’s shaking with laughter by the time a masked Clu gets off his stairs and approaches him. _Oh, Dad, I wish you could see this_ , he thinks as Clu looms over him and looks him over.

            “ _Hmm, shorter than I expected_ ,” Clu murmurs, turning away.

            A snort escapes before Sam can help it. _Name ain’t Snake Plisken, either_ , he fights not to say.

            His reaction puts a slight hitch in Clu’s stride, but the Program’s recovered by the time he turns around again and Bald Guy whispers more endearments to him. Sam tries to give them a bit of privacy by stepping back and taking some deep breaths while he looks around, mapping out the arena they’re in while he waits for the next step of the charade.

            A throat clears behind him. When he turns to the sound, Bald Guy’s holding out a case that’s already missing a baton. Sam looks at it, glances at Bald Guy, then leans to one side and cocks his head at Clu as he raises his still-cuffed wrists.

            He might _just_ hear a twitter of chuckling from the crowd as Clu rolls his head a bit and Force-releases the cuffs with a gesture. More amused than unnerved, Sam props a fist on his hip and rubs at his masked chin, thoughtfully perusing his lack of offered options for a moment – might as well keep the theatrics going while they’re at it – before taking the second baton.

            He hears Bald Guy’s teeth grinding as the case snaps closed. Sam glances up in time for Bald Guy to give him a haughty sniff before he and Clu turn their backs on him.

            Sam shrugs a shoulder and does the same, idly bouncing the baton in his palms as he takes a few steps away. Then he smirks and funnels the energy still simmering under his armor into the baton, making a beam of dark blue light form on the other end.

            If anyone overhears his giggle, they’d probably call him evil. Or insane.

            The giggle becomes a cackle as he waves the beam around and it produces a sound not unlike a lightsaber. His inner twelve-year-old steps out to play as he swings it through some classic moves, ignoring the rev of Clu’s lightcycle engine, the cheering/jeering crowd, and his armor’s slow fade from white to black again while he mentally plays _Duel of the Fates_. He whirls into a jump and lands on one knee with a slashing flourish just before a new voice says,

            “That’s . . . not what it’s meant for. Sir.”

            “I’m aware,” Sam says, taking a deep breath. He feels much less manic when he rises and lets the energy beam retreat into him again. He shakes out his arms as the tingling subsides, turning to face the quartet approaching him. “You the boss of this group?” he calls to the tall African at its head.

            The African bows his head, blue circuits developing a slight violet tinge as he replies, “Cutler. I’m the longest-lived survivor of New City’s Disk Wars, but I have experience with lightcycles, too.”

            “Well done,” Sam says, nodding. “I’m Sam. I’ll be your distraction for the day.” He tosses Clu’s baton to Cutler before the rest of the group can introduce themselves. “That’s from Clu’s personal stash. Do me a favor, and find a way to get the hell outta here _without_ engaging Clu or his cronies. I’ll keep ‘em entertained while I wait for my ride.”

            One of the green-circuited Programs snorts, but Clu-and-company cuts off the conversation before it can begin by driving through and scattering their group.

            “Impatient little brat,” Sam mutters, then pushes the baton away again when Cutler tries to give it back to him. “The guards never frisked me. I’m more-than loaded for Pooh Bear, here. _Go_.”

            All but Cutler turn tail and activate their lightcycles; he just cocks his head at Sam instead. “You sound more like my friend Beck than the Renegade.”

            “Met him, have you.”

            “Yes.” Cutler clicks Clu’s baton onto one leg as he pulls his own baton from the other. “Call if you need help. Sir.” With that, he turns and activates his lightcycle, revving away.

            Sam takes another look around as Clu’s ship rises off the gaming grid, discovering it’s not a completely flat space after all. There’s at least two levels, with multiple dips and rises in-and-out, with what looks like a corkscrew section hidden just behind where the ship had been.

            Sam’s team is mostly dancing through the lower level trying to avoid Clu’s group, who’s spearhead is still zooming along the upper level’s edge, greeting the crowd.

            _No light ribbons_ , Sam thinks as he completes his circuit. _That’ll make things more difficult_.

            _“Attention: Program,”_ the female Voice drones. “ _Prepare for: Lightcycle Battle.”_

            “No, really?” Sam sarcastically asks no one. “And here I was, all ready to bake a cake for the party.” He starts patting himself down anyway, debating what weapon he wants –

            An engine growls behind him. Sam instinctively twists, dropping to one knee as his beam katana slices through the wheels and undercarriage of the lightcycle charging him.

            It also hits the Program’s foot, disintegrating it.

            Sam stands as the ‘cycle falls into voxels and lets out a boom between them. Now both the Program’s feet are gone as it tries to crab-crawl away, whimpering as more and more of its legs disappear. “Crap,” Sam says, dropping his katana and reaching for the Program as it shies away. He grabs hold just above a knee and kneels as he channels power into it. “Here. Lemme see if I can –” Circuits flash white under his palm, the armor turning a pearly grey as cracks grow faster and wider. The Program grabs at his arm as its helmet disengages, revealing the pale skin and wide eyes of an Iso.

            _“User,”_ the Iso breathes, his fearful expression turning to wonder as silvery-white replaces the red in his eyes. Then his eyes roll back and he falls limp, shattering on the ground. Sam freezes, mind blank; unable to feel anything beyond his heartbeat and breaths as he watches the Iso’s voxels melt into the floor of the grid, grieving the POW he’d inadvertently killed.

            _Brainwashed POWs_ , he thinks, _that’s what they are – what they **all** are_. He rises to his feet again, a rumbling in his ears as he looks again at the crowd. “ _This isn’t a game,”_ he hears his own voice mutter. _“It’s a hostage situation.”_

            Tires squeal to a stop somewhere nearby as someone yells, _“Sir,”_ and something thumps into his chest. “Snap out of it! We need help!” Sam clutches at the thing, blinking as he comes back to himself and notices the power surging under his feet, tiles crackling.

            The crowd on his end of the stadium’s gotten awful quiet, too.

            Cutler – it has to be – races away, a pale blue ribbon trailing his lightcycle as he returns to his teammates.

            _No more_ , Sam thinks, determination settling into his bones as he takes a quick sprint to catch up with the African. He trades his katana for his ‘cycle’s baton just before he leaps, the baton breaking in midair as coding forms around him. He lands with a thump and revs the engine, knocking off at least three generations’ worth of coding as he streamlines on the go.

            By the time he’s jumping over lightwalls to reach his team, Sam’s lightcycle looks and feels like a three-way lovechild of a tank, a bullet, and his Ducati back home. He slips to the lower level to avoid a collision and pokes at the Grid, asking for a weak point that’ll cause minimal damage. Finding it, he tosses a grenade to the ground and yells, “Cutler, _go!_ ” over the speakers just before it detonates. He uses the last of his extra energy to push the energy from the explosion through the gaming grid, creating a tunnel to safety.

            Cutler and the last green cut away from Clu’s group and rush toward Sam, the threatening red and gold ‘cycles a bare few clicks behind them. Sam waits just long enough for them to pass him before swirling back into action, activating his own light ribbon to create a narrow-pathed labyrinth with thick, opaque walls that a Disk alone won’t be able to break through. A red ‘cycle slams into the outermost wall and shatters, leaving Clu with only two companions. Sam shuts down his light ribbon again and pulls away from his labyrinth a moment later, choosing not to hide as he crests to a stop on the upper level.

            The crowd’s gotten awfully quiet on this end of the arena now too, but Clu-and-co don’t seem to’ve noticed the change.

            “Aw, c.’mon, Clu,” Sam taunts over the speaker after a minute of watching them banging against his labyrinth’s outer wall. Clu pauses and starts to turn, recognizing his voice. “Gimme a freakin’ challenge! I never thought you’d be _lazy_.” He pauses dramatically, tilting his head as though it’s just occurred to him: “Or is it scared? You afraid of getting creamed by another User?” Sam’s helmet drops, revealing a smirk he doesn’t feel.

            Clu roars and charges his way in answer, Cutler and his green companion forgotten.

            Sam lets the smirk fade as he dismounts from his lightcycle, letting it fall back into its baton shape as Clu’s cycle approaches. “Let’s play a game, little brother,” he says, idly dodging away from the Disk thrown at him as Clu returns to the top level. “A game of memory.” He picks up the baton while waiting for Clu to catch his Disk and circle his ‘cycle back around. “I remember watching Alan confront you in an arena like this twenty years ago.” He ducks the Disk again – hand-held, this time – aiming a kick to the lightcycle as it passes so Clu has to choose between keeping his Disk or his mobility; he drops the Disk. “I remember Alan insisting that you weren’t his enemy – something my seven-year-old brain couldn’t comprehend at the time.” He calls on the Grid as he ambles up to the fallen Disk, pulling up happy memories of those who’ve been lost and killed over the last twenty years to flash across the arena’s floor. “How could a Program – second only to Tron in his passion for Users – _not_ be an enemy after betraying his own Creator?” He dances away from Clu’s third attempted strike as a memory of Tron yells, _“Flynn, Go!”_ through the speakers. Then he kicks out again, forcing the Program into a slide that destroys the ‘cycle while Sam picks up the Disk and looks through its MCP-drenched coding. His shoulders slump, an incredible sadness filling him at the sight, and he locks gazes with Clu through the beam. “I remember who you were meant to be.”

            “ _Forget it, Mr. High-and-Mighty Master Control_ ,” a ghost of Clu’s own voice echoes out to the silent crowd. “ _You’re not makin’ me talk_.” It’s technically from the console version of the first TRON game, but would anyone here know that?

            Clu snarls from his crouch, clearly wanting to rush Sam again but afraid to do it.

            Sam sighs; shuts down the Disk and sends it rolling to its owner. Even if he knew the original codes, this isn’t the time or place to try cleaning it up. “Why are we fighting, Clu? What’s the point of all this?” he asks instead.

            Clu takes back his Disk in the silence, and two things happen at once: something within the Grid tugs at Sam, yanking his concentration hard enough that he takes a startled step back, looking for something he can’t see; and a red-orange circuited Program busts out of the golden ship still hovering over the arena to plant itself between Sam and Clu, brandishing a glowing beam katana in each hand as glass rains down.

            Sam goes breathless as he rises from his self-protective crouch; shakes his head, trying to clear it of memories as he takes another step back and raises his hands. He hadn’t intended to recreate _this_ degree of histo- –

            His skin’s tingling again, like it had when he and Jet found Jarrex and Rogan. “I know you,” he thinks aloud, pressing closer to get a better look at the Program. “How do I know you?” He glances over the circuitry, mentally trying to give it another color, but no memory sparks –

            _“ **Samuel Allen Flynn** ,” _booms like the voice of God from above, startling everyone and making multiple Programs in their audience scream with terror. _“What do you think you’re doing?”_

*  *  *  *  *

_He aches, hearing that voice. He watches the User look up with a grin, countering with a teasing “What took you so long!” He tries again to drop his weapons and stand with the User, to free himself of the nightmare he’s been plunged into. His body merely turns, guarding his torturer as the User moves away, out into the Arena as something huge and blurry drifts down from the sky._

_The User becomes a similar blur an eyeblink later, making the Programs surrounding them in the Arena stands gasp and murmur amongst themselves. He watches as the two blurs merge, then his body finally moves. His hands deactivate and press the katanas into their holsters, one hand grabbing a tracker in its place. He darts into a sprint as the larger blur starts to rise, jumps, and places the activated beacon on the lowest part of the machine. It’ll likely be crushed when they land, but by then the damage will be done._

_His screams of horrified denial come out as a soft growl while Clu steps up and pats his shoulder in congratulations. The blur rises further away, abandoning him to his fate._

_**Get them out, brother** , he prays helplessly, unable to cringe from Clu’s touch as the blur disappears into the distance. **Get them out before I’m used to come after you.**_


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you think getting Alan out of the Grid is the end of the story . . . you're wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at the Final Showdown in Chapter 18. So enjoy this brief lull before everything goes bonkers. ;-)
> 
> That said, feel free to start throwing out possible titles for Part Three. I'm kinda drawing a blank right now.

**Chapter 9**

            “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jet this angry,” Ram cheerfully informs him as he wiggles up onto the Recognizer’s cargo platform, then leans down to give Sam a hand up. “What’d you do this time?”

            Sam’s chest is heaving for air as he stands, so he has a minute to think it through before he responds, “I specifically told him I wouldn’t expose myself while we were separated.” His hands settle on his hips, breathing calming as he considers it further. “Would that be enough?”

            “Unlikely. Beck makes promises like that all the time. We’ve gotten to where we take bets on how long it’ll take for him to break ‘em.” Ram grins and clasps his shoulder, looking him over. “You okay?”

            Sam nods, shrugs. “More or less.” He looks up to Jet, who’s at the helm. “Guess I oughta go face the music.”

            “Not yet, Sam,” Tron yells from the other end of the platform. “He’s gonna need a few minutes to sort out what he’s feeling and decide if he should calm down or not.”

            Sam nods again and ambles over to the elder-younger pair instead. “How’re y’feelin’?” he asks, lightly bumping Alan’s shoulder with his hand as he kneels next to them.

            “Peachy,” Alan says flatly, head leaning on Tron’s shoulder. “If I had the energy, I’d be screaming bloody murder right now.” He opens an eye and winces at the view, shutting it quickly as he pales further. “Why’d we have to _fly_?” he moans.

            “What – you’re afraid of heights?” Sam asks, settling into a more comfortable position as a grin breaks out. “You’re a freakin’ giant! How’s that possible?”

            “Says the pipsqueak who hates small spaces,” Alan counters in a grumble as Tron smothers a smirk, murmuring “Alan, be nice.”

            Sam’s smile flattens. “Don’t remind me we’re in a box, Alan,” he warns in a bleak voice, “I have the energy for screaming.”

            Tron snorts, recognizing the joke. “You said it.”

            “Looks like the way is clear,” Ram says, approaching them. “We’re on our way to the Portal, with just enough time to spare.” He crosses his arms and leans against the wall with a soft thump. “Seems odd that Clu wasn’t prepared for this – it’s not all that different from what we did to get Tron back years ago.”

            “Could the sameness have lulled him into a sense of security?” Sam asks.

            “Similar events, but very different circumstances,” Tron says with a shake of his head. “Clu most likely has countermeasures in motion, we’re just not seeing them yet – nor do we have the time right now to dig ‘em up.” He stretches out his legs, getting more comfortable. “Not like it’d take a genius to figure out we’re heading to the Portal anyway, after its warning pulse.”

            “It pulsed?” Alan asks, his oddly empty voice silencing Sam’s question. “. . . I didn’t feel it.” His eyes roll open again, staring sightlessly at Tron’s feet. “It might be too later for me, if I’m more Program than human –”

            “Stop talking like that,” Tron commands, circuits brightening. “You’re not allowed to give up, not when we almost have you free from that damn virus.” He twists to face Alan, cupping the older man’s jaw in his hands. “You’re getting out of here. You’re going to recover. Then you’re going to tell me how to destroy the MCP once and for all. Understand?”

            Sam has to look away as Alan pulls out a weak smile and clasps Tron’s wrist. “Yes, Sir.”

            Tron seems to be the only one who believes it – and then, only in part – as he settles back into his previous position, circuitry dimming back to normal.

            “Maybe Senior can help,” Sam thinks out loud as he watches from the corner of his eye.

            “Senior?” Alan asks.

            “Who’s that? How can he help?” Tron adds.

            “Um,” he says, shifting his weight nervously. “This feels so rude . . . y’know you’re a copy, right?” he asks Tron, a certain scene from _Toy Story_ zipping through his head.

            “Originally, yes,” Tron nods, then tilts his head. “Why?”

            “So, uh,” Sam shifts again. “The original Tron’s still at Encom, getting regular antivirus updates n stuff. Long story short, he might be able to pass along something useful, if you’re willing to come out with us – you can do that, right?”

            “I . . . don’t know. It’s possible, I guess,” Tron says, looking to Alan and Ram uneasily.

            “We should be able to hold the fort for a week,” Ram says.

            “A we-” Sam starts to question, then blinks as the lightbulb goes on. “Oh, right. Time moves faster here.”  He looks up to Ram to ask, “It’s a whole week between laser firings? It’s just over three hours on our end.”

            “It’s between seven and eight cycles for us, on average. We essentially have a new year for your every six days,” Ram tells him.

            A quick calculation, and “ _Shit_ ,” Sam breathes, looking at Alan with wide eyes. “You’ve been here over thirty-six thousand years.”

            “Ugh. Make me feel old, why don’t ya,” Alan jokes weakly as he rolls his head off Tron’s shoulder and against the wall behind them. Then sighs. “Think I’m feelin’ every second of it, right now.”

            Sam reaches out to give him an energy boost, only for Alan to shy away, muttering “I don’t wanna find out how easy the virus transfers.”

            “Tron’s touchin’ you just fine,” Sam argues.

            “I have an encoded resistance,” Tron reminds him with a sad smile, “and my stint as Rinzler, plus twenty years of fighting the virus directly, has only strengthened it.”

            “Rinzler . . .” Sam murmurs, eyes narrowing at Tron. “That’s your red-circuited alter-ego, right?”

            Tron nods, looking a little embarrassed.

            “Huh. Speakin’ of Rinzler,” Sam says, allowing himself the distraction as his hand retreats. “Do any of you know who that Program guarding Clu was? He felt familiar, but I couldn’t place him.”

            Ram shakes his head as Tron says, “I wasn’t really looking – too focused on getting your attention and getting out of there. What was familiar about him?”

            Sam wiggles, trying to shake off the chill trying to invade him again. “Jet tell you about Jarrex and Rogan?” he asks. The others nod. “I had the same tingly sensation when we found them – just as strong, though it was only the one guy.”

            “Someone you interacted with the first time you were here, perhaps?” Ram suggests. “We’ve tried to keep our contact with former Resistance fighters to a minimum, for their protection, and we haven’t checked in with most of them in quite a while.”

            “Could be just about anyone, then,” Tron says.

            “Not really,” Sam says. “I really only met, like, five Programs last time – and that includes Ram and the twins. I’m pretty sure it was a guy, too, which eliminates Lady Mc-Grouch-a-lot.”

            Ram and Alan both snort at that, while Tron continues to think.

            “Which leaves . . . Shaddox?” he asks, looking to Ram.

            Ram sobers, eyes narrowing in thought. “I talked to him briefly about a deca-cycle ago. The physical parameters don’t fit, but I imagine that wouldn’t be a difficult change. If Clu has him, though, he has all of New City’s secrets.”

            “Which means he’ll attack again. And prob’ly soon,” Alan says, voice somber with bated grief.

            Unable to do anything about it for now, Sam and the Programs try to lighten the mood and change the subject again by telling anecdotes of their lives to pass the time. Sam looks up to Jet every few minutes, trying to figure out an apology for whatever he did wrong this time, only to get sucked into a new story. A good thirty minutes come and go before Sam glances out to see hovering pillars and turbulent water, blurring against a bright, humming light.

            They’re minutes away from the Portal; minutes away from going home.

            And saying goodbye. Possibly for good, in Alan’s case.

            “One day,” Sam says staring at the Portal’s light as the Recognizer lands and their platform descends, “I wanna come here without an agenda and just . . . explore. Hang out with you guys and play.”

            “May that one day come soon,” Ram murmurs like a prayer.

            “Sounds like a plan,” Tron agrees, standing to help Alan up.

            They step off the Recognizer together, then Sam wanders a little away, giving the trio some space for their goodbyes. A moment later, Jet comes down from the pilot’s controls; Sam alters course and heads his way.

            “Hey, man,” he says, bumping shoulders with the Program. “Sorry if I scared you earlier. I did something kinda reckless so they’d capture me, and got a little high on the energy output.”

            Jet curls his arms into himself, expression still stormy as he watches the others. “What’s going on?” he asks, totally ignoring Sam’s apology.

            “Tron’s gonna tag along with Alan n me to the User world,” Sam says, trying to ignore the rejection. “Might have a solution there he can bring back – also might help Alan transition back in, if his code’s as wrecked as y’all think he is.”

            Jet shudders and closes his eyes, circuits brightening as his jaw clenches. “How long?”

            “Traffic on a Friday night should be worse coming out of the business sector instead of going in . . .” Sam ponders aloud for a moment, then shakes his head and shrugs, at a loss. “Hopefully no more than the time between Portal openings, but it kinda depends on what-all needs doing. Might take multiple rounds, when all’s said and done.”

            Jet nods, and goes to take Ram’s place as the older Program comes Sam’s way. Sam presses his lips together, wanting to say some positive, encouraging thing to smooth over their latest rough patch, but not too willing to be ignored or rejected again. _Better to just let it be for now_ , he decides, sighing out his frustration. _Maybe I’ll figure it out later._

            “You gonna be even bigger the next time we see you?” Ram teases, smacking at Sam’s shoulder for his attention.

            “Nah, I’m full-grown now – if I grow any more, it’ll be _out_ , not up.”

            After a few more joking jabs and promises are exchanged – and Jet gives Tron a _very_ clingy hug – Sam, Alan, and Tron head for the bridge to the Portal without looking back.

*  *  *  *  * 

_“It’s Beck,” Jet says as they watch the Users and Tron step into the Portal’s light. Ram’s gaze breaks away from the sight to send a confused look to his nephew, whose circuits burn bright with some great distress. “Clu has captured and Rectified my brother . . . and we never knew.”_

_It takes a moment for Ram to connect: “ . . . The Program at the Arena?”_

_The Portal shuts down as Jet nods, fighting back tears._

_Ram looks back at the darkened area, mind scrambling with panic, grief, and horror before he takes a deep breath – it seems to help Tron and the Users – and swings an arm around Jet’s shoulders. “Well, we’ve got some time to spare,” he says optimistically, turning them around. “How do you feel about a rescue mission?”_

_It tugs a smile onto Jet’s face, at least, as they head back to the Recognizer._

_Neither of them notice the indigo lightjet hovering in the sky just beyond the ridge, observing their retreat._


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Users' world. . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried posting this last night just as AO3 crashed on me. Sorry if y'all get repeat notifications.
> 
> Also, Sam's made himself something of a Disney slut; Quorra's a fan of something . . . a little rougher. ;-)

**Chapter 10**

            Her phone buzzes again; again she ignores it.

            She can barely stand to park legally, let alone bother with the parking meter. She fumbles through her keys until the right shape snags in her fingers as she reaches the arcade doors. She hardly notices the song blaring away on the jukebox; the blinking, whirring riot of their childhood sanctuary as she races for _TRON_ –

            - And gets body-slammed into another game for her trouble.

            She struggles – of course she struggles – until the face above her registers . . . as the face of her first hero. “You,” she breathes.

            “Oh,” he murmurs back, a faint squint easing from his features. “Greetings, Quorra,” he says, then steps away. “Alan’s resting upstairs. Sam insisted on getting all of us some food – something about energy storage, though he didn’t seem quite sure about it when it came to Alan.”

            She blinks, mind scrambling to understand as the music dies. “How long’s he been gone?” she asks blankly. _Not Alan Bradley? Then you must be . . . but no, that shouldn’t be possible. Unless –_

            “About twenty minutes ago, I think,” the man who must be Tron – _FUCKING TRON himself!_ – says, awkwardly clasping his hands behind his back. “He might be getting clothing that fits better as well. I don’t know how long that’ll take.”

            She blinks again, takes a quick scan of what he’s wearing, and bites her cheek to keep from laughing. The near-mythic Hero of the Grid is standing in some weird amalgamation of Sam’s usual biking wear – still in Sam’s size – and a forgetful professor’s tweed suit. Including tie. The only thing that might fit – in sizing and character – are his boots.

            “You can laugh,” he says, looking resigned. “I know I look ridiculous.”

*  *  *  *  *

            The woman sobers instead. “I guess I should be thankful that Sam was wearing slightly baggy clothing when we came out in ’89. The laser seemed to have a better idea about how to handle things then . . . . Wonder what changed.”

            “Tron?” a voice calls from upstairs.

            He chooses to ignore her implied question and turns to answer Alan’s instead. “Quorra’s here,” he says, heading for the stairs to the loft. “Sam’s call must’ve scared her – what’re you doing up?”

            Alan huffs at him, rolling his eyes. “I heard banging, then talking. Wanted to see what was going on, Doct- – holy crap, she’s huge, too.”

            Tron doesn’t bother to look behind him as his father develops another coughing fit. “You expected her to stay the size of a ten-year-old?” he teases, long legs taking the stairs two and three at a time. “Is this something I should be concerned about?” he asks upon reaching the top.

            Alan swats at him, trying to recover his breath. “The boys’re only half-Iso, and they haven’t aged. There’s no reason to think she would –”

            “I’d say the Twins are twenty-three to twenty-five now, compared to the teens we met,” Tron argues, ushering his father back to bed.

            Alan scoffs, “To-may-toe, to-mah-toe –”

            “Let’s call the whole thing off,” Tron finishes.

            Alan gives him a raspberry; Tron just grins.

            “ _Wow_. And I thought Dad n Roy sounded like an old married couple,” Quorra finally speaks up from the doorway as they sit on the squeaky mattress.

            Tron and Alan both raise an eyebrow at her. “You’ll have to be more original than that to embarrass us,” Tron tells her.

            “Apparently sharing a brain, however long ago, means all my internal debates have become external,” Alan explains with a wry smile, taking pity on her.

            “Ram thinks it’s how we verify we’re okay,” Tron tells him.

            “Ram’s a smart guy. You should listen to him more often.”

            Both of Tron’s eyebrows rise this time. “So you don’t have to?”

            Alan grimaces at him. “Damnit. I used to be good at this,” he concedes, falling into another coughing fit. Tron pulls his father close, burying another smirk in his hair.

            A whistling sound emerges from Quorra’s direction as the fit settles again. She pulls out a small, rectangular object that lights up at her touch. “Oh, _now_ you tell me you’re back,” she mutters at it, thumbs shifting over the light.

            “What’s that?” Tron asks.

            “Hmm? Cell phone.” She finishes what she’s doing and turns it to them, offering it as she approaches. “Older model, a few generations back from Encom’s latest in its Communication line. Practically a computer in the palm of your hand, it can call or te- uh, write to people, take pictures, play games and movies, and search the Web with hardly any lag time.”

            He feels Alan leaning away from it as he eyes the rectangle, and doesn’t try taking it from Quorra’s hand. “What would you search a web for – aside from spiders and dead insects?”

            “Wha-? No, no.” She shakes her head at them. “The world wide web.” They keep staring blankly at her. “The internet? It really kicked off about . . . ’93, I think.”

            “Oh,” Alan says. “I think I remember reading an article about that – a trio of colleges somewhere in the Midwest, I think,  interlinked their computers for some project-or-other back in the late sixties, early seventies – is it still going? It must be boring as reading the Encyclopedia –”

            “That’s where you got the idea to make me, wasn’t it?” Tron asks.

            Alan smiles. “Yeah, that was your genesis.”

            “It’s expanded a _lot_ since then,” Quorra breaks in, coming up to sit next to Tron. “You can still do research, of course, but it’s mostly for things like news, entertainment, shopping, and communication, now. I’ve got friends I’ve never met in person who’ve always lived in places I’ve never been – everywhere from Texas to South Africa to Germany, just to name a few – and we’ve bonded over a TV show about two brothers fighting the Apocalypse.” She pulls it back, thumbs fly over the screen again for a moment until a picture appears: Quorra and Sam, dressed a little oddly, flanking a pair of unknown – and equally oddly dressed – women. She turns the “phone” on its side so the picture fills the screen and holds it out for both of them to see. “I cosplay as ‘Cas,’ Debbie’s ‘Sam,’ Kate’s ‘Dean,’ and Sam kindly dressed as ‘Bobby’ so we’d have a complete Team Free Will at last year’s  convention.” It means next to nothing for them, but they nod all the same. Quorra keeps babbling as her thumb occasionally swipes across the screen, showing them more pictures.

            Tron hears something shift downstairs several minutes later, followed by soft creaks like someone walking up the stairs to meet them. The smell, however, reaches them first. His stomach gurgles loudly, making him jerk a little in surprise and stare at his abdomen (he can almost feel Alan and Quorra share a smirk over his head as he does so).

            “Aw, c’mon, Q,” Sam cajoles from the doorway. They turn his way. “Not everyone’s interested in your obsession – quit harassing ‘em.” He tosses a couple plastic bags onto the bed as he passes, taking the smell-filled boxes (. . . pizza?) to the small table in the kitchenette.

            “You’re just jealous I can touch my crushes when you ca- –” Quorra breaks off what sounds like a well-worn argument with a gulp, a blush staining her cheeks as Sam raises an eyebrow at her.

            “I put some coins in your parking meter, by the way – you’re welcome,” Sam tells her, pretending the awkward hiccup doesn’t exist. “Plates or no plates?” he asks the room in general, turning to lay another, heavier sack on the counter. “Options are basic cheese and pepperoni – I figured, between the inexperienced newbie and the gut that hasn’t had anything in twenty years, we should prob’ly keep it simple this time ‘round.”

*  *  *  *  *

            No one answers the plate question, so he pulls out the energy drinks instead as the other three close in. He tosses a bottle of neon-blue liquid sugar-and-electrolytes to Quorra first, so the others know to catch theirs. The next half-hour-or-so is filled with smacking lips, quickly decimated pizza, and a quicker summary of the last twenty years and Sam’s own adventure on the Grid.

            “You think Senior can help?” Quorra asks, wiping her mouth and shifting to get a more-direct view of Alan as their tale winds down.

            “You don’t think he can?” Sam counters. “I know it’s a little risky, but it shouldn’t be impossible –”

            “I’m a human/Program hybrid, raised in the User world,” she reminds him, her eyes never shifting from Alan. “I’m the freakin’ _definition_ of impossible, even by today’s technological standards. No,” she says, crumpling her napkin and turning to Tron. “My only question is if Senior’s modern coding can function on a System that hasn’t seen an update in twenty years – without crashing it to smithereens on the first run.”

            Tron bows his head to her. “Thank you for the consideration. I can’t answer your question, but I do know that Bug and the boys seem to be doing just fine. The real question, as far as I’m concerned, is if you’re willing to help us.”

            A smile tugs at Quorra’s mouth. “With me tagging along, you won’t even have to break in, first . . . . Or will that be too boring for you?” she asks, tilting her head back towards Sam.

            Sam snorts. “No, Q, I’m not revealing my super-secret entry into Encom.”

            “Would it happen to be a particularly big door used for large equipment deliveries?” Alan asks, coyly raising another slice of pizza to his mouth as Tron snickers at him.

            Sam chokes on his bite and gives a sharp negative with big, over-innocent eyes.

            Quorra rolls her eyes and growls with mock-frustration – they both know the story, and _that_ one’s way too obvious an answer – but gets up to help him with the cleaning process while the others look over their new clothes, then follows him downstairs to give them some privacy while they change.

*  *  *  *  *

            She wanders to the jukebox while Sam takes out their trash, idly flipping through its catalog until one song seems to light up before her. She smiles and hits Play without hesitation.

            _“Oh, Mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law –”_

            Sam groans dramatically as he comes back into the main room. “Oh, nuh- _uh!_ ” she half-yells, shaking her finger at him. “You are _not_ allowed to say you hate this song, Mr. I-learned-guitar-just-to-play-this-solo!”

            “I don’t!” he shouts back, approaching her as the melody splits. “I just finally got it out of my head while we were catching you up. Now you’ve put it back in again.”

            She blinks at him. “No . . . you didn’t,” she says, catching on.

            He nods, blush rising in his cheeks as the _Hang-man_ comes down. “Yeah, I did.”

            She brays a laugh, throwing her head back as the _OHHH_ kicks off the music, and Sam whips her into a twirl.

            For the next three-and-a-half minutes, they become goofy teenagers again, dancing through the chorus and trading off lines of verse with long practice. Sam, of course takes the guitar solo while Quorra freestyles it until they seamlessly come back together to sing the chorus one last time, back-to-back like the rock stars would. _“THE WAANTED MAA-AA-AAN! Yeah, yeah . . . AN’ I DON’ WANNA GOOO, oh, no!”_

            They don’t realize they’ve developed an audience until applause and cheering erupts from the stairs as the music fades. Embarrassed, they give their bows but refuse an encore by insisting on getting back to work when Alan starts coughing again.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

            “So,” Quorra says, turning down the radio as the traffic untangles itself and Sam’s bike races ahead of them. “What do you think of music with words?”

            “I’ve known it exists for twenty years, thanks to Alan,” Tron says, then cocks his head at the traffic as they slow down again. “I do find it odd, though – why would a man about to die sound so . . . _cheerful_ about it?”

            “I’ve always figured it was like a Western,” Alan supplies from the back seat. “The guy’s got an ace up his sleeve, and knows he’s not dying today.”

            Tron turns in his seat. “So ‘Mama’’s a distraction, not a grieving parent?”

            Quorra shrugs, smothering laughter. “Maybe. Or maybe the hang-man’s his rescuer in disguise. Who knows?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song's lyrics again, if anyone needs 'em: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOQ4pkUAFbA .
> 
> Speaking of music, I've developed something of a playlist for Renegade/3Rs 'verse. If any of y'all are interested in hearing it . . . where do I upload it? (newbie here)


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, a wild Flynn appears! (. . . How's that different from last chapter?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About an hour after posting the previous chapter, I wrote Renegade's last required sentence. I've been editing/smoothing things out since then (as well as getting started on Part 3, tentatively titled Regeneration), but now I've got a question for y'all: would you rather I up the posting rate to weekly and have several months' lull while I prep Part 3, or do you want me to keep to schedule and (hopefully) roll straight into Part 3 a couple weeks after Ch 18 and the Epilogue are posted?
> 
> There are pros and cons for both, especially if you have a love or hate for cliffhangers. ;-)

**Chapter 11**

_They take a risk and separate for a cycle to touch as many former Resistance lines as they can within New City; the meeting barely commences before Beck and a half-dozen Black Guard crash in, scattering everyone into fight-or-flight mode._

_Jet grabs Ram’s arm, turning them both a deep indigo with effort. They edge toward the only entry, where Beck’s maybe-girlfriend Paige lingers with tears in her eyes. By some miracle, they manage to slip away with none (but maybe a red-orange circuited Sentry) the wiser._

_On to Plan B._

*  *  *  *  *

            Their entry into Encom is quiet and mostly uneventful: a couple of the veteran guards send Sam suspicious looks upon seeing him, but only mutter darkly after Quorra’s passed. One of the receptionists gives Alan-or-Tron a once-over, her chair squeaking slightly as she turns to follow their passage with her eyes. Leon – who all-but caught him on the roof last year – gives an actual spit-take, though Sam can’t say for sure who it’s for. He sends a smile-and-wave to the guy who had enough guts to follow him onto the crane, thrilling inside that such a big company still employs people who care about others – even potential thieves – more than nepotism or how much money they make or lose for the company.

            The elevator ride up is mostly silent – no elevator music required – and uninterrupted, since it’s almost six and most Encom employees leave between three and five on Fridays . . . . so, with any luck, even Dad’s already headed home for the day.

            Alan’s lungs have stopped seizing on him every five seconds, which indicates there’s something in the arcade (dust, maybe?) that was driving him nuts as he tried to readjust to User world air –

            “Holy _shit_ – Bradley, is that you?” the one voice they _don’t_ want to hear says seconds after they step off the elevator. Sam closes his eyes and bites back a sigh as Kevin Flynn steps out of a random office, eyes focused on Tron and his face brightening with joy. His arms raise for a hug as he approaches them. “Wow, man, I haven’t seen you in forever! Where the hell have you be- –”

            It takes Tron all of three strides to bypass Quorra and punch Flynn square across the jaw, knocking him into a nearby desk. “You even _think_ of touching my father,” he growls as Sam blocks Quorra from jumping to their Dad’s defense, “and I will _kick your ass_. Understand?”

            Flynn splutters with confusion, his eyes turning glassy as he stares up at Tron.

            A dry chuckle interrupts their staring contest. “This feels familiar,” Alan says. “Kinda like déjà vu, but in rever- –” he chokes and winces, losing balance as he curls into himself. Two pairs of hands reach out to steady him, and he gasps as the fit passes a second later. “Tron,” he says, shaking Sam’s hand off and grasping at his son’s as a new weight crackles in the air. “It’s more than just dust messing with me. We’re out of time – if the virus can affect me out here, it’ll be able to infect people soon –”

            “No.”

            “Son –”

            “I’m not losing you.” Alan blinks back tears and opens his mouth to argue, but Tron leans in and whispers, “It’s not an option. For either of us.”

            Something clearly private passes between them as Alan’s mouth closes, his shoulders falling. He nods and leans his head against Tron’s shoulder as tension continues to mount.

            “Call off your attack dog, Flynn,” Tron orders absently, pulling Alan close and tapping his fingers along Alan’s shoulder –

            Quorra snorts. “Yeah, easier said than done,” she snaps with biting sarcasm. “He’s got this thing about Users, you might’ve heard of it –”

            “Q, really?” Sam asks, wincing at her.

            “Let’s finish this,” Tron interrupts before Quorra can respond. He steps away and wraps an arm around Alan’s waist, looking toward them. “Which office is yours?”

            Quorra’s lips compress, but she leads the way as Sam brings up the rear. He glances back to his Dad as Tron-and-Alan step through into her office, mouth quirking at the wide-eyed man helping Dad off the floor. “You believe us now, Roy?” he asks, stepping in and letting the door close before his gobsmacked uncle can answer.

            Yeah, it’s petty of him, but he can’t make himself care about it right now.

*  *  *  *  *

            Quorra’s angry with him – and rightfully so, since they didn’t mention Flynn’s part in Alan’s illness – but Tron’s just as livid, and is struggling to calm down again as static continues to grow around them.

            Quorra turns at her desk as the door clicks shut and snarls at him, “What the _fuck_ was that about –”

            “Dad tried to kill Alan,” Sam tells the door before Tron can answer.

            “What?” Quorra blinks at her brother.

            “Remember when we first got back?” Sam says, rolling to press his back against the door. “How Dad talked about wiping the Grid and starting over, only the computer kept sparking every time he touched it?” He jerks his chin their way. “That was Tron, blocking Dad from the System so he couldn’t finish deleting Alan.” He breaks gazes with his sister’s widening eyes to look at Tron. He nods, a new weariness in his features. “Thanks for keeping it to one punch, by the way.”

            - And the rage bleeds out of him with a sigh. He takes a deep breath and nods back, calming exponentially.

            “Why is the air so . . . heavy?” Alan asks, sliding down to take a seat on Quorra’s couch.

            “Senior, probably,” Sam says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “Not quite AI level yet, I don’t think, but he figured out how to access the security cameras a while back.” The ghost of a smile passes over his mouth. “Makes it a real bitch to sneak in, some nights.”

            “Makes it more fun that way, I imagine,” Tron throws out, testing.

            Sam huffs a laugh, mouth quirking as an eye slits open to look at him. “You could say that.”

            “Ugh, quit flirting,” Quorra says, rubbing her temples in frustration. “It’s awkward enough when –”

            “Not the time, Q,” Sam cuts her off, looking like he wants to glare at her but doesn’t have the energy.

            “You’re depleted, aren’t you,” Tron says, shifting away from the couch to offer an arm. “Do you need to –”

            “I’ll be fine,” Sam tells him, only to slide into a half-sprawling position on the floor. “I’ll hold the door n take a twenty minute zone-out while you three get what you need from Encom’s System . . . . Might have to wake me if it takes longer than thirty, though.” He raises his head for a moment to fiddle with his watch. “You have about an hour before the laser’s cycle ends – better get moving, if you don’t wanna stick around with us.” It thunks back down.

            “I’m staying out here,” Alan says. “Reintroducing the virus to its origin-System’s just – not a good idea.”

            Sam and Tron both shoot him a displeased look, but neither tries arguing with him.

            “What do we do, then?” Tron asks Quorra, approaching her with caution.

            She eyes him, perhaps understanding his actions, but not quite ready to forgive him. “Grab a chair. Pull it over here,” she says, nodding at the furniture on the opposite side of her desk as she takes her usual seat. “I’m not sure how it works,” she warns as he follows instructions. She shifts her chair over to make some more room. “I can’t even say for sure _if_ it’ll work, since I’m the only one who can do it so far.” She offers him one hand as the other reaches out to her desk, waking the computer within it as Tron takes hold and mimics her. “The first time was an accident – I fell asleep against the CPU wondering what was taking Dad n Roy so long . . .” Her pupils develop a slight glow before her eyes drift closed, her voice softening. “ . . . and then I was in.

. . . . “ _And he found me_.” . . . .

            It’s a cool plunge through flat, energy-depleted clouds and past I/O connections and Solar Sailer lines into a landscape as familiar/alien as a dream. He feels himself solidify into a sitting position, and half-expects to open his eyes to a glaringly white suit and blue circuitry, a helmet squeezing his temples and crushing his hair. (What can he say, he’s gotten a little vain about it since helmets became optional on the Grid.)

            He can’t say if he’s relieved or disappointed at seeing the black suit with minimal circuitry showing through, but a sense of presence at his side provides a convenient distraction.

            “Nice suit,” he says, startling Quorra into yelping and breaking their hold.

            “I, uh . . . I guess I didn’t expect it to work that well,” she says shyly, then rotates her own black-clad body to face him better when he doesn’t flicker out at the lack of contact. “How’re you feeling?”

            He takes a quick diagnostic and shrugs. “Fine. It’s _really_ loud here.” It’s even louder than it had been when he left the Encom System back in late ’88 – a roar he might’ve compared to Niagara Falls, if he’d known what it was like back then – and it’s nearly deafening to ears now long-used to the near-silence of the Grid. “Is this normal?”

            Quorra’s gaze wanders upward for a moment, then she shrugs back at him. “It’s prob’ly our ‘net connection. It’s always running, even if no Users are around –”

            Someone bangs on the door to her unit, making them both jump to their feet as a new Program charges in.

            Tron takes the defensive, shoving Quorra behind him before the Program can reach her. The Program tries to sweep his legs from under him, prompting a quick hop and a knee to the face that the Program barely dodges. Flashes of recognition pass through Tron’s mind as they exchange blows and blocks for minutes on end, Quorra yelling at him all the while to stop. At one point, the stranger manages to shove and pin Tron against a piece of furniture, snarling as it starts strangling him. His scrambling hands happen upon something to smash against his assailant’s skull; he takes the chance to slip away and returns to guarding Quorra, lighting his Disks in warning –

            “Why does Other You have two IDs?” a new-but-familiar voice pipes up from the doorway. “How’s that even possi- Q, _why does he look like he wants to kill me_?” a heavily-pierced and green-circuited Clu asks frantically, raising his hands as he steps in and away from the entry. He pauses and blinks, an incredulous look growing on his face as Tron tenses further. “ - is he _growling?_ ”

            Quorra grabs and yanks his arm from behind, forcing him to shift his weight back onto his heels again as she says, “He’s the Tron of my origin-System.”

            “Oohhhh,” Clu says, mouth twisting to change the sound as it drags on. He nods, hands falling lower; then he perks up, mind switching tracks. “Alan1? Any news on –”

            “He’s alive,” Tron growls. “No thanks to you or your Maker.”

            “ _I’ve_ never met him,” Clu archly corrects him. “Though if he’s half as awesome as Q and Roy suggest –”

            “What do you want, Clu?” the other Program – the other _Tron_ – cuts him off, still glaring at Tron. ( _Well, **that’s** gonna get confusing quick_ , he can almost hear Beck snark.) “We’re a little busy.”

            “With what? Ignoring Q’s demands that you knock it off?”

            A laugh huffs out of Tron’s chest without his permission, something within him easing as –

            “He attacked Flynn –”

            “Or was protecting Alan, if you bothered to listen to Sam –”

            “Why’re you so . . . inquisitive?” Tron asks, silencing the other pair’s argument. He eyes up this new Clu, seeking out more differences.

            “I’m the Encom search engine,” Clu says in a _no, duh_ tone. “Getting answers is one of my primary functions – asking questions helps to narrow the search.”

            _Huh._ “Do you enjoy it?”

            Clu beams. “ _Hell_ , yeah. I might know _way_ more about anal sex than I ever needed to” – Tron suspects Quorra makes a face behind him as Clu sends a teasing look over his head – “but it’s a hella more fun job than Mr. Stick-up-his-butt’s, here.” Clu throws a thumb Other Tron’s way, his other hand settling on his hip in a sassy pose that the Clu he knows would never consider, let alone seem so comfortable in. “Do I dare hope you know what fun means, Mr. Double-Disk?” he asks, flirty.

            “Something about enjoyment of your leisure time,” Tron answers with his flattest expression, deactivating and putting his Disks back together as Clu dramatically slumps with defeat. Then he lets a smirk emerge. “Personally, I’ve found playing hooky is _far_ more invigorating.” He straightens out of his defensive position, idly rolling his Disk around on his palm.

            Clu’s jaw drops, then he _squeals_ and dances in place. “EEEE! Can we keep him, Q? Can we can we? I’ll feed him and walk him and pick up his poo- –”

            “He’s not a _dog_ –” Quorra starts, laughing –

            “Maybe another time,” Tron interrupts again, clicking his Disk back into its dock while Quorra raises her eyebrows at him. “I’ve got a family to protect and a Grid to save right now . . . assuming you’re willing to help me fight the MCP again,” he adds, turning to Other Tron – what did Sam and Quorra call him? Senior? – who still hasn’t fully relaxed from his battle stance.

            “The MC-” the _P_ falls silent on Clu’s lips, his eyes widening as the sass and mirth melt away. His strength disappears, body thumping against the wall and circuitry flickering as he processes. “. . . That might be even scarier than a me-gone-rogue,” he breathes, swallowing dryly and developing a thousand-yard stare.

            Senior rolls his eyes in a clear _not this again_ gesture. “I destroyed the MCP ages before you came, Clu. It’s not going to jump out of some shadow and drag you away –”

            “I may never have met it,” Clu says, sliding down the wall, his voice getting smaller as he sits. “But another me did . . . and the System remembers . . .” He shivers, curling into himself. “’S not fun, getting ripped apart and analyzed piece by piece.”

            “No, it’s not,” Tron says, recognition resonating in his chest. He approaches the Program with gentle caution and kneels to catch Clu’s gaze. “But are you going to let that pain define you as a victim, or drive you to help protect others from the same experience?”

            Clu blinks several times, air sighing out of him as determination fills his eyes and firms his jaw. Once he’s fully present, Tron smiles and offers a hand up. Clu doesn’t hesitate in taking it. “I like you,” he decides, rising with a deep breath. “You’re good people.”

            Senior snorts. “Clearly this one’s defective,” he says, gesturing at Tron as he turns to Quorra. “Why waste so much time and energy bringing it to me when you could’ve just deleted and reinstalled –”

            “Excuse me,” Tron murmurs, then stalks to the other side of the room.

            Senior doesn’t see the leg sweep coming; a hand filled with energy to his overlarge emblem freezes him on the ground mid-word before anyone can protest.

            “Who are you, to play God with me?” Tron calmly challenges into the silence. “’Specially when you know nothing about me,” he adds, uploading snapshots of memory through their link – his Clu’s betrayal and Flynn’s abandonment; Alan, finding and then risking everything to free him; moments of Ram-and-the-Twins’ mischief and pranks with little TRON; the awe in Sam’s and Quorra’s faces when he met them in their adult forms; the question in Sam’s eyes and the quirk of his mouth as he raised his Disk to bring all three of them into the User world – “Stop. Being. A _dick_.” He rises again and steps back, shaking out the tingling energy still clinging to his hand.

            Senior rolls onto his side and curls into himself, blue circuitry flickering as he processes the depth of the moments bestowed on him. It doesn’t take long – ten, maybe fifteen seconds – for him to steady out again while the others’ eyes flick between them, mouths agape.

            “Our Maker,” Senior says blankly. He rolls to sit up again, gaze still turned inward. “You call him . . . _father_?”

            “You don’t have to share blood to be family,” Tron explains, crouching to sit, mirroring Senior’s position on the floor.

            Quorra makes an odd sound behind him. He hears Clu murmur something and usher her out of the apartment a moment later, leaving the pair alone.

            “. . . What _are_ you?” Senior asks, slowly looking him over.

            “Some combination of Program, User, and Iso; don’t know if there’s a name for me, yet.” Tron shrugs and tilts his head at the other Program. “You gonna help me, or not?”

*  *  *  *  *

            At least ten minutes have come and gone, but Alan’s still fascinated with the textures around him. One hand stays on his thrift-store jeans, constantly rubbing from thigh to knee and back again, while the other bounces between the leather couch, the glass-and-wood side table, the brass lamp sitting on it, his own button-down shirt, and into his hair again for the dozenth time –

            “Doin’ okay there, Alan?” Sam asks from the door.

            “Yeah, just . . . getting reacquainted,” Alan says. Then pauses, something sliding into place in his head. “This used to be my office.”

            Sam hums agreement, shifting slightly against the door without opening his eyes. “N Q will give it back to you the second you make a noise about wanting it again . . . . She’s giving like that.”

            “Why don’t you work here?” Alan asks, apropos of nothing.

            “Don’t fit.” Sam’s mouth quirks. “I want adventure Encom’s Board can’t handle,” he half-sings to himself.

            “Oh dear God,” Alan says, realization dawning. “You’re one of those crazy people who jump out of airplanes, aren’t you.”

            “Skydiving’s _fun_ , Alan,” Sam protests, clearly fighting laughter. “It literally gives you a whole new perspective of the world –”

            Someone knocks on the door. “Sam? Can we come in?” a muffled voice asks.

            Sam’s eyes open, looking the question to him.

            Alan takes a deep breath, glances at the desk to check if either Tron or Quorra have reacted, and nods.

            Sam rises to his feet in less than a heartbeat – something else to be envious about – and opens the door slightly, murmuring something to the people on the other side before granting them entry.

            Roy steps through first – and stops dead just a couple strides in, staring at Tron and Quorra sitting stone-faced at her desk. “That’s so . . . _bizarre_ ,” he breathes.

            “Which part: the youth, or the glowing eyes?” Alan quips.

            “Neither,” Roy says, turning to him, his own eyes wide as he waves vaguely at the pair. “I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen you functioning without glasses.”

            Sam snort-chokes on air, but keeps his head down as he carries the other chair from in front of Quorra’s desk over by the couch.

            Alan decides against asking and stands to risk a quick hug with his long-lost best friend instead. ~~( _Probably won’t get another chance_.)~~ It takes a few extra seconds to notice the third figure hovering at the door. “You coming in or not, Flynn?”

            “Am I allowed?” Flynn asks, nervously shifting his weight as he eyes Tron. “Doesn’t seem I’m all that welcome here,” he mutters.

            “Since when did you need a formal invitation?” Alan rebuts. “Get in here.”

            Flynn surges closer – only to get corralled by Sam and ushered into the chair with a murmured warning (reminder?) to not touch Alan.

            Alan raises an eyebrow at that.

            “Tron warned him. I don’t wanna find out how figurative he was being, if he can tell whether Dad touched you or not,” Sam says, leaning against the chair back. “Not to mention Dad’s prob’ly the most vulnerable among us,” he adds with an eyebrow raise of his own.

            _Oh._ “Right.” Alan nods. “Good thinking.” His rebellious streak rises anyway, and he shifts to sit between his two friends.

            Sam smirks, shakes his head, and asks about drinks, ambling to a small refrigerator on the other side of the room. “I’ll have to do some rummaging if y’all want munchies.”

            “Only you would dare touch Quorra’s stash, Sam-I-Am,” Roy tells him.

            Sam grins. “What’re little brothers for?” he asks, tossing a bottle of water to Roy, then Alan. He walks two more over to them, passing one to his Dad before settling back at the door with his own bottle. “Lemme know if you need anything else,” he says, closing his eyes again.

            A moment of awkwardness passes between the three men after that, no one sure where to begin.

            “Where’ve you been, Alan?” Flynn finally asks, breaking the silence as Alan takes his first gulp of water in twenty years. “I know you were angry with me the last time we talked, but you’ve never run away from an argument before –”

            “You don’t remember?” Alan asks, incredulous.

            “Dad doesn’t remember much between my seventh birthday and waking up from brain surgery a year later,” Sam pipes up from the door. “Snatches of work or home life, random bits that could be vivid dreams or his time on the Grid – he’ll insist some guy in a cool motorcycle helmet tried to mug him outside the arcade one night, but tell him Tron nearly died to keep Clu from murdering him is like speaking in Klingon – he can barely translate it sometimes, let alone tell you if it really happened or not.”

            “I’m not _that_ bad,” Flynn mutters, clearly embarrassed as he shifts in his seat and eyes Tron again. “I know something special happened there,” he says, something dreamlike developing in in his voice. “That Quorra’s a part of it, and I almost destroyed it, almost got Sam killed.” He shakes his head, gaze dropping. “It turned me monstrous in the weeks after – bad enough that Roy and my parents sent Sam n Q to visit Lora for Christmas that year . . . and they didn’t come back ‘til the next fall, after I had mostly recovered from the surgery.”

            Alan raises an eyebrow in Sam’s direction. “You didn’t mention that part, Sam.”

            “It’s in the past. Why get your mad-on over something that’s already forgiven and forgotten?” Sam argues back, not bothering to open his eyes; his mouth quirks instead. “At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover it was the MCP virus screwing him up the whole time – it just manifests as cancer cells here, ‘stead of code.”

            Roy snorts and pulls off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose, body language screaming skepticism when Alan looks his way. “Sam tells me you’re married with kids, now,” he says, deciding to let that giant lie for now.

            “Yeah,” Roy says, putting his glasses back on and reaching for his wallet. “Bradley James is nine and a holy terror, Andrew Jacob is seven and debating on following him – and no, we didn’t name either of ‘em after you.”

            “Oh, thank God,” Alan says, nudging closer to get a good look at the pictures.

*  *  *  *  *

            Dad snorts at them and stretches out in his chair, ready for story-time now that the ice is broken _and_ the focus is off him. Sam releases the breath he’d been holding and lets his eye roll closed again. _First hurdle mastered_ , he thinks – then his eyes pop back open to check Tron and his sister; the time on his watch. His head thunks down again, gently rattling the door. _Plenty of time._ He takes a deep breath and lets his limbs go heavy again, returning to his not-quite-nap space. _Never thought family reunions would be so **tiring** . . . ._

 


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know you. Getting to know all about you . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, everyone. I had been out of the Renegade mindset (and working on Part Three) long enough at last posting that I jumped the gun on mentioning the possible Trigger Warning that's coming up. THIS chapter's safe, it's NEXT chapter that begins the problematic situations.
> 
>  
> 
> ***ETA 5-6-18: WHOOPS! Just discovered I'd mis-posted chapters out of order. Bear with me while I straighten it out and post the latest one - sorry if y'all get multiple update notifications.***

**Chapter 12**

_It’s a painful process, changing one’s circuitry. It must be agonizing when it’s forced upon you. Jet hates doing it, but merely shifting his “designated” color scheme won’t be enough anymore – not even going “invisible,” as Sam had put it,  since his brother will be able to detect that as well._

_None of the patrolling Sentries give him a second glance when he slips among their ranks, though at least two of them had to’ve seen the one he’s replacing get killed in the previous skirmish._

_He grabs Mara’s arm and sends a silent ping, startling her into stillness before she can derezz another guard. It means capture instead of deresolution, but Jet’s honestly not sure if either option is the lesser evil as he and the Sentries eventually pile the few remaining Programs into a tank._

_He sits next to her, and waits to send another ping until they’re approaching the Disk Wars Arena. Her response is . . . bizarre._

_A very Sam-like smirk pulls at her mouth, her circuitry brightening. She brushes her bangs back and she begins . . . humming? One of her fellow prisoners catches the tune, his own circuits brightening as he smiles and starts to sing. **“The Renegade who had it made, retrieved for a bounty. Nevermore to go astray –”** _

_The guards stiffen in warning as the others join in, but the Programs don’t seem to care as their voices and confidence grow. **What have you done, Sam Flynn**, Jet wonders, bewildered as he watches them._

_Surely something **this** simple isn’t what’s needed to start a rebellion._

*  *  *  *  *

            Clu’s distracted – as he always is when the MCP is mentioned, even in past-tense – but theirs is a well-oiled machine by now, and with only a little added input from Quorra, they bust the sex-ring before the kids are forced down that road for another weekend. She nudges his shoulder in congratulations, watching as Milwaukee police raid the house, capturing several johns and one of the higher-up pimps in mid-auction. If any of those monsters try to wiggle their way out by claiming to “rescue” the kid they were purchasing, the officer in charge will find multiple files of evidence for the john’s type in his-or-her email by morning. Actually, they might just do it for all of them anyway . . . .

            Clu’s team doesn’t pause to savor their victory for long, already halfway through identifying the kids and figuring out if “home” is a safe place for them to return to – and for those whose “home” isn’t safe, a foster home that can give them the time and space they need to recover.

            _This_ is why she ignores Sam’s texts to work late on Fridays, though she very rarely happens to be in-System to take part in it. There’s an extra bounce to her step – hell, she’s probably _strutting_ – when they walk back into her . . . empty apartment.

            The figurine Tron used against Senior’s head earlier is sitting, half-reconstructed, on the table among its other pieces – probably Tron’s doing, since Senior always complains about her “frivolities” – but there’s no other sign of anyone having been here.

            Quorra blinks at it, nonplussed. They’ve only been gone . . . a little over three hours. Where did they go? Why would they leave?

            “Tron’s prob’ly taking Junior around, showing him our latest tech,” Clu says. “Think he’s impressed?”

            Quorra feels a smirk pull at her mouth. “Only if Senior lets the tech speak for itself, and doesn’t treat Tron like an idiot,” she turns to her best friend and second hero, the smirk growing as she raises an eyebrow. “What’re the chances of that happening?”

*  *  *  *  *

            He thought they’d come to an accord of sorts before they left the apartment, but at some point between getting the antivirus software downloaded to his Disk and beginning this whirlwind tour of what’s changed since his last memory of the Encom System – a tour Senior has insisted time and again is standard operating procedure – they’ve devolved into barely standing each other again.

            Tron doesn’t think he’s acting quite as odd or abrasive as Flynn had been the one time he appeared on the Encom System – sharing the same Creator is probably a part of that – but he’s long-grown tired of the curious and suspicious glances getting flung his way by every Program that happens past them. Glances Senior doesn’t seem to notice.

            Tron again aborts the urge to rub his forehead, jaw clenching as Senior snaps at another underling. He sends an apology ping, trying to soothe the Program’s feathers as she gets up from her terminal, only to get a confused look in return when he takes her place.

            Is Senior somehow unaware that simple courtesies like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ can get him a whole lot further with a lot less trouble? If this is his regular programming, how the hell has Encom not risen up and rebelled against him? _Tron’s_ on the verge of punching his face in, and he’s been here barely over half a millicycle –

            “Ha! What’d I tell you?” he hears Clu crow before Senior can delve too deep into his latest lecture. “Am I good, or am I _good_?”

            “It only took you four tries to get it right,” Quorra agrees sardonically. “Gold star for you.”

            Clu preens as they approach and Tron can’t help laughing, marveling at this version’s near-constant joy, even when being mocked. The sound seems to surprise the data pushers to either side – he can feel their scandalized looks – but he decides to ignore them.

            His laughter only deepens Senior’s scowl. “You finished making a mess of my System already, Clu?” he asks acidly over Tron’s shoulder. “Why can’t you be that efficient at cleaning it up – or better yet, not making the mess in the first place?”

            “Is that stick up your butt blooming again?” Clu counters, not missing a beat. (Tron’s not the only Program who snorts at the image, but he’s the only one to not bother hiding his reaction.) “Why’re you telling Junior about GPS, anyway? Every Program on the Grid knows where it’s at already, and it ain’t gonna be movin’ anywhere anytime soon.”

            “He’ll need to know how to track Programs once the Grid is connected to the internet –”

            “One war at a time, please,” Tron cuts him off, relieved to have an excuse. “I still need to kick out the MCP, remove or repair the damage it’s caused, and then figure out how or even _if_ the Grid should go through an updating process before it’s ready for the modern-day internet – not to mention making sure everyone else is willing and squared away on it.”

            “You don’t need anyone’s opinion.” Senior snaps. “It’s your job to –”

            “ _Please_ tell me I’m mishearing him,” Tron growls, not daring to look at the Program looming over him, the headache roaring back.

            “ _Wow_. Okay, time to separate you two,” Quorra says, brooking no argument when Senior tries to protest against the interruption. She pulls Senior one way; Clu leads him the other. The Program he’d ousted slides right back in her chair with a sigh, getting back to work like nothing had happened. Tron’s hands clench tighter, vision narrowing as Senior’s overall attitude circles in his mind until they settle in a relatively quiet corner.

            Clu takes one look at him and asks, “You gonna snap at me if I suggest a deep breathing exercise?”

            Air gushes out of him, and he has to take a deep breath before he can answer. “No.” He drops his head and closes his eyes, focusing on his next inhale before he feels calm enough to ask, “Is he normally like this?”

            “Normally, no,” Clu says, leaning his shoulder against the wall and crossing his legs while he thinks. “I could claim he usually doesn’t have this extreme an upgrade to work through, or the required time-crunch, either . . .”

            “But?” Tron prompts, lifting his head again.

            “He’s angry,” Clu says, glance snagging in Senior-and-Quorra’s direction. “A level of angry he’s hit _maybe_ a half-dozen times – usually when Sam’s snuck something past him – but it’s always been directed at himself, not other Programs.” He tilts his head back Tron’s way. “What happened? It looked like you two were on the same page when we left.”

            “I thought we were, too,” Tron says, rubbing at his eyes. He sighs. “He keeps asking to see my Disk, and only seems to get madder when I tell him no.”

            “It _is_ standard procedure,” Clu explains with a slight shrug, “to make sure everything’s copied over and functioning correctly –”

            “ _Alan’s_ barely touched my Disk in the last twenty years. Why would I let a virtual stranger –”

            Clu’s fingers snap. “That’s it, I bet.”

            Tron blinks at him.

            “You’ve been face-to-face with your Creator for two solid decades,” Clu says, then nudges his head Senior’s way. “ _He’s_ been living off of scraps of memories _about_ him that entire time, with little hope of any change –”

            “And then I reignited the hunger,” Tron finishes, closing his eyes. “When I gave him those memory packets of my time on the Grid so he’d understand where I was coming from.”

            “First-hand experience of Alan Bradley’s awesomeness,” Clu breathes, marveling. “ _I’m_ a little jealous, and I’m not even his kid.”

            Tron smiles. “Maybe once he’s feeling better, you’ll see it in person.”

            “‘Feeling better’?” Clu asks. “What’s wrong?”

            A chill like premonition flows through Tron’s circuits. He reaches for Clu’s elbow, pulling the other Program to stand on his own feet instead of against the wall. “Listen closely and keep your eyes on me. Try not to panic.”

            The sparkle fades from Clu’s eyes, his hands gripping Tron’s biceps in return. “Okay.”

            With another deep breath, Tron sends a compressed packet of everything they’ve gathered on the MCP – including the bits his Rinzler half had gathered during his forced conversion – over their link.

            Clu shudders, wavers . . . but doesn’t blink until it’s over. Then he leans his head against Tron’s shoulder – much like Alan had done earlier – to process. Tron takes to stroking the hair on the back of his neck, continuing to provide an anchor while he wai- –

            “How can you stand to be near me,” Clu murmurs. His weight shifts. “After what I did to you –”

            “The MCP has no sense of humor,” Tron tells him, a smirk pulling at his mouth. “And it _hates_ unanswered questions.” Clu’s head lifts to stare at him. “ _You_ aren’t the Clu I’ve been fighting.”

            Clu swallows and nods, starts to pull away – and freezes. “Quorra’s in danger.”

            “ _All_ the Flynns are,” Tron reminds him, “Though Quorra’s probably at the highest risk, if the MCP slips past Alan.” He tilts his head. “Can I trust you to –”

            “You finish that sentence, I’ll have to kick your ass.”

            Tron grins. “There you are! Welcome back.”

            Clu sends him a lazy scowl. “I don’t think I like you anymore,” he says, turning away.

            “Aww, man,” Tron says, taking strides to keep up with his new friend. “But I’m still good people, right?”

            Clu tries to plant an elbow in his side in answer; Tron _mostly_ dodges it as they head back to the others.

*  *  *  *  *

            Her teeth are grinding by the time Clu and Tron return – seriously, there are days Senior needs multiple clue-by-fours just to catch a hint – and seeing Clu shaky, pale, and haunted again does _not_ improve her mood. She somehow manages to reel in her biting tongue when her friend catches her eye and nods, the barest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth. “I’m thinking we could all use a breather,” she decides, cutting Senior off mid-rant. “Maybe one of the lesser-known energy wells?” she suggests, turning back to him.

            Senior’s jaw clenches, but he nods agreement and leads the way.

            They settle, almost an hour later, at a pool hidden in the mountains bordering the city. Senior takes the high ground, needlessly guarding them and refusing to partake in the retreat. Tron’s slightly less-obvious in his instinctive guard duty, taking their other side and lounging across a natural bridge splitting the well in two sections. He swishes his hand through the energy before scooping a handful up to his mouth – and makes a face.

            “Taste funny?” Quorra asks, studying him.

            “It’s probably full of alien electrodes, things you’re no longer used to or can’t even translate –” Clu starts.

            “It tastes . . . heavy. Like a flat, watered-down soda,” Tron murmurs, attempting another sip and curling his nose again at the taste. Then he tilts his head at the pool. “I wonder if it’s deep enough for swimming.”

            “Full immersion? You’d fry your circuits,” Senior snorts from above.

            Tron answers by dropping his handful of energy back into the well with a soft _plop_ and twisting to sit up, his feet dipping into the liquid. Light races up his circuitry as he sighs, closes his eyes, and says, “Alan took us into an energy storm shortly after our merge . . . one of the worst storms the Grid’s ever seen . . .” the flat surfaces around him flicker awake like a row of TV screens in a store, showing a first-person view of arms and legs pumping as they race up a stairwell and burst through a door. The view shifts upward, to a sky of falling rain and lightning dancing through clouds. Though there’s technically no sound or sensation, Quorra swears she can feel wind trying to snatch her off the roof; hears the rolling boom of thunder as the person – as _Alan_ – strides into the storm. “After that kind of surge,” he says, Alan’s arms raising a Disk to the sky, “it’d prob’ly take a lightning strike to put me down.” On cue, lightning hits the Disk, flaring everything to white. “Though I doubt even that would hold me for long.” His chin drops, his eyes rolling open again as the white fades.

            _Does he know he just gave us a_ _show?_ Quorra wonders, mouth agape and flicking a glance Clu’s way.

            “Not a full Reintegration, then,” Clu murmurs from over her shoulder. “How’d you get separated again – if you don’t mind my asking,” he asks.

            Tron huffs softly to himself. “I have two sets of memories for most of that time,” he says, the “screens” reigniting with a story to either side, while the pool under their noses lights with a third. “I’d inherited a piece of another Program during Clu’s coup, which kept his Disk active in my hands even after I derezzed him.” – the moment in the pool shows Tron fighting off a Black Guard and derezzing it, only to discover he was holding two Disks without trouble – “Clu used that duality to distract and weaken me while he locked the virus into my systems.” The pool’s story gutters out as a helmeted Clu raises his Disk to destroy Tron.

            “Ironically, it’s also why he wasn’t able to kill me off.”

            Breathless, Quorra looks up just in time to watch Alan kneel down to greet her child-self as Rinzler shoves an Iso to his knees and dispatches him with a casual blow; Alan snatches Sam away from a kamikaze lightcycle as Rinzler kneels before a gold-circuited Clu, waiting for instruction; Rinzler approaches a lone, white-circuited Program waving to someone at the Portal as Alan sits on a billboard to watch something happening in the Lightcycle Arena –

            She shivers, hearing Sam’s scream without the roar of the Portal surrounding her this time. She can almost feel her muscles strain when Ram turns to fight. _“I’m not losing you,”_ Alan promises as Ram takes a knee and a startled Rinzler pauses. _“And I’m not about to leave you like this.”_ Tears spring to her eyes. _Such dedication_ –

            _“I’m not your enemy,”_ Ram seems to argue from the other side as Clu struts out to pass judgement over his prisoners. _“Please don’t make me one . . . Don’t leave me here alone.”_

            The screens freeze for a moment on the Arena and Ram’s face, then fade out. The pool lights up again: the same scene from two angles, slowly merging together as Rinzler drops Ram at Clu’s feet, then turns and notices Alan. “Part of me wanted to cease existing and just stay a part of Alan forever,” Tron murmurs over the dialogue as Alan gives Rinzler a Disk. . . .

            Static.

            **_“Tron-ja thirty-seventy-twenty, Location Query: Confirm.”_** Alan commands into the silence.

            Tron smiles to himself. “But it wasn’t to be.”

            Rainbows of light burst and twirl around them, a kaleidoscope of memories – some of them might even be from the _TRON_ games –

            “Knock it off,” Senior growls.

            The lights get sucked back into the pool, where they whirl dizzily for a moment. Then Tron’s own voice kicks in: **_“Conf-firm, Alan-One.”_** Alan’s joyous, beaming face appears out of the swirling colors ( _Huh. Does Tron have dimples, too?_ Quorra wonders dazedly), and everything goes still for a moment as they all contemplate it. Then Tron blinks, and everything fades back to normal.

            “Did I answer your question?” he asks, brow furrowing. “It doesn’t feel like I did.”

            “You did,” Clu tells him, awe abounding in his voice. “More than answered.”

            Tron’s mouth quirks, his gaze dropping as something like embarrassment flickers through his circuits. Then he pauses, something snagging his attention. A dim, ancient memory flashes through the energy pool – three figures, _“Let’s move ou-”_ – before he yanks his feet from the liquid, murmuring his excuses.

            Quorra watches him dart away, rolling slightly to keep Tron in sight – only for her gaze to catch on Clu’s solemn expression as he gazes at the reflection in the energy still pooled in his Disk.

            “Clu?” she asks, sitting up.

            “Why would Flynn make me – _any_ version of me – into a SysAdmin? It made sense to make my Originator autonomous while he was breaking into _this_ System, but . . . the paperwork _alone_ would drive me to rage-quit multiple times within a handful of cycles – there’s no _way_ I’d still be sane by the end of the day.” He shifts his Disk to make the liquid ripple and distort his image. “My core function has always been to retrieve information, to seek out new angles –”

            “To boldly go where no one has gone before?”

            He shoots her a very, _very_ rare warning look, sobering her humor, before murmuring agreement and sitting up. “Does it make sense to you?”

*  *  *  *  * 

            He climbs up the slope with little trouble, and nods to himself, unsurprised at the familiar – if greatly expanded – view. “This is the last place you saw Ram.”

            Senior gives a derisive snort, refusing to look at him, but his bright circuitry gives him away.

            “Yori disappeared when the laser project was cancelled,” Tron continues, putting the pieces together. “You rarely had the patience for Dumond’s ramblings. Ram, for some mysterious reason, never revived like all the other Programs did.” He sits back against the wall; tucks one leg under himself and props an arm on the other knee as he looks at the city and I/O towers beyond. “Alan was all you had . . . ‘til I stole him from you, too.” He leans his head back, watching his original self through his lashes. “Is that what Flynn told you – that your first copy turned into a self-centered, greedy little bastard, and it was up to you to keep any future iterations in line, now that Alan was gone?” He waits, letting the question sink in. When no answer comes, his head rolls to the side, back toward the other pair – then another thought hits. “How long did it take for you to stop calling Clu ‘Flynn’?”

            “You think yammering me into an apology will work?” Senior snipes back. He jerks his thumb at the others. “ _That_ one has yet to succeed, and you don’t have nearly enough time to make a dent.”

             Something about it makes Tron’s mouth twitch. “Relax, Tron,” he says, voice dripping with condescension as he rolls his eyes. “Understanding the motivations behind your actions doesn’t make you any less of an ass for _taking_ those actions.”

            Senior snorts again – perhaps with a touch more humor? – before they fall into a lasting silence, something clearing in the air between them . . . . Not forgiveness maybe – too soon for that – but a degree of understanding, at least.

            “Hey, Tron?” Clu’s voice pipes up from below several minutes later. Both turn to look down to him. His gaze darts between them, then settles Tron’s way. “Can I steal you a minute?”

            Tron barely flicks a glance at Senior before answering by sliding back down to him. “What’s up?”

            “I, uh,” he fiddles with his Disk, the energy inside it fracturing the light over his face. “I don’t know if you have any interest in saving him, after what he did . . . but I can give you a copy of my base-code, if you want.”

            His hands take and break his Disks apart before he can think the offer through – only to hesitate before dropping his emptier Disk into Clu’s. “Are you sure?” he asks. “Part of me might transfer over in the exchange, and I can’t promise it’ll be pleasant memories –”

            “You mean I might inherit some of your battle prowess?” Clu exclaims, bouncing on his toes. “Yes, yes, YES!”

            “Okay, okay,” Tron says, fighting back laughter and grabbing Clu’s forearms to steady the other Program. “Keep your pants on.” He takes a deep breath – _please don’t hurt him_ , he thinks, or maybe prays – and drops the Disk in.

            A mist of coding springs up over their Disks for a few seconds, ones and zeroes shifting places until they create a rolling cylinder of light. When everything settles and the light disappears, the liquid energy has been sucked away, leaving their glowing Disks behind. He picks his up gently and checks over the contents before minimizing and locking the Clu-portions down, then syncs his Disks back together. “Thank you,” he says, pressing his Disk into its dock. A hitched breath and closed eyes later, he adds, “Alan’s never wanted to kill his nephew, but we’ve never found an alternative solution.”

            Clu’s grinning when Tron opens his eyes again. “You are something else,” he marvels, shaking his head before following Tron’s example.

            His download doesn’t go as smoothly: circuits flutter, power flaring as fine cracks appear, and Clu stiffens and wavers hard; almost smashes to the ground – would have, if Tron wasn’t already there to catch him.

            “Woah, easy. Easy,” Tron hears himself murmuring. Clu’s legs collapse under him; Tron follows him down. “I’ve got you. I got you –”

            “WHAT DID YOU DO!” Quorra screams, crowding up behind Clu and giving him an energy boost.

            “I don’t know,” Tron half-shouts, circuits flaring to do the same. “I don’t know what he’s getting –”

            Clu gasps between them. Sobs a couple times as he presses his forehead against Tron’s neck . . . then goes quiet. “’m okay,” he whispers. Then swallows. “I’m okay.” He takes his time pulling away from Tron, his eyes darting left to right and back again as they separate; wobbling dizzily and staring into the middle-distance between them, like he’s still reviewing his code.

            There’s a solemnness, an _age_ to his features that Tron’s not sure he likes as Clu closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying as he fully returns to them. “I’m alright.”

            Tron forces his grip to ease some, trying to let go. Clu’s eyes open, still glowing a little as he looks at Tron. “You just might exceed your dad’s awesomeness.”

            “Not possible,” Tron rebuts, his grip relaxing further.

Clu chuckles. “A Tron with humility,” he murmurs, eyes closing again. “There’s an amazing concept.”

            “I think you’ve worn out your welcome,” Quorra says, worry the only thing keeping her voice from turning hard as she flicks a glance above-and-behind Tron.

            . . . Yeah, Tron can feel the humming rage behind him, just waiting for a clear shot that doesn’t put Clu or Quorra at risk. “I think you’re prob’ly right,” he says, hands finally falling away. “You’ll keep an eye on him?” he asks, standing.

            Quorra nods, but Clu’s hand grabs his forearm, making him pause. “Hey,” he says. “If you guys get connected, send your boys my way? I wanna meet ‘em.”

            “Why? They’ve already got three doting uncles –” The sparkle returns to Clu’s eyes, an almost-maniacal grin blooming on his face. “Oh, no. Nononono. They already give us enough trouble without your brand of crazy –”

            _“Oh, little playmate, come out and play with me,”_ Clu sings. Quorra snorts, trying to bury her giggling in his back.

            Tron takes his cue to _run_ , Clu’s deep laughter echoing in his ears as Senior gives chase.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've discovered I have multiple copies-of-chapters saved waiting to be posted . . . but they're all chapters I've already posted. When I went to delete one, it warned me that all comments for that chapter would be deleted as well . . . so have I *not* posted those chapters like I thought?


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As one tale seems to end, another begins . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: I suspect I'll be adding a Trigger Warning for how the next chapter ends. Not entirely sure what to name it right now, but I want to give a heads-up here, in case it slips my mind at next posting.
> 
>  
> 
> ***ETA 8-6-18: I just discovered I've posted out of order, and am reposting in order now. Apologies for multiple notifications. I'll be posting the newest chapter shortly.***

**Chapter 13**

_It’s been almost four cycles, and he hasn’t heard anything from Jet. He tries not to worry_ – _Jet probably has to be extra careful, what with New City’s rebellion and Beck’s . . . **expertise**  with all their systems of communication – but he has precious little else to do. Planning for the future might be one of his core functions, but war has never been a stable element –_

_The door behind him swishes open, a ghost of the past sauntering through. “Hey, stranger,” she says as Beck, Jarrex, and four more Sentries fan out around her. “Been awhile.”_

_Ram turns from the reflections in the window to the Programs themselves; bites back a sob at the touch of orange he barely detects in some of their circuitry. “Do you know who you’re fighting, Yori?” he asks, feeling his shoulders sink under the weight of eons. “Do you really expect to win?”_

_“Fighting means conflict,” she shrugs, crowding closer to him and pinching his cheek. An image of Bug inexplicably pings into his mind. “I see no conflict here.”_

_Pain erupts within him, a screeching agony he’s never experienced befo- –_

_Blackness. A soft purr fades away . . ._

*  *  *  *  *

            He’s half-dreaming of the two Trons pitted in an epic, just-for-fun Disk battle, with Quorra and Clu and who-knows how many other Programs randomly cheering and booing all around them. It develops a Medieval slant the longer it goes – now there’s a goal in mind: a princess to win, a village to save – as modern armor grows shiny and bulkier, the arena becoming more forest-like. Disks briefly become lightsabers, then lances and shields, then morph back into Disks again as his mind rejects –

            A chuckling sound from the desk pulls at Sam’s eyelids. He’s reluctant to return to reality at first, wanting to see how, when, _if_ the battle ends, but then –

            “Pretty sure I shouldn’t consider fighting for my life _fun_ ,” he hears Tron murmur to himself over the soft squeak of hands retreating from Quorra’s computer-desk. Sam’s eyes open to see Tron reaching up to rub his own, then pushing his arms out into a full-body stretch, like he’s been sitting there for hours – though in Grid-time, maybe he has – and letting out a groan that pulls everyone’s attention to him. “Definitely more fun than it should be,” he decides as he relaxes, propping his arms on top of his head as his eyes open. They land on Sam first – Sam can almost see the _Area Secured_ note flicker through Tron’s eyes – then drift Alan’s way. “. . . Roy?” A laugh and dimpled grin pop out as he stands and rounds the desk. “I’d know those curls anywhere –”

            “I don’t take kindly to people who beat up my friends,” Roy says, standing to block him from Dad and Alan.

            Tron’s forward motion stops, his grin fading. Sam stands too, wondering if he’ll have to break up a fight.

            “No. . . . You wouldn’t,” Tron agrees.

            “What’s the holdup with Q?” Sam asks, partly as a distraction, partly out of surprise when his sister doesn’t step in.

            “I, uh,” Tron hesitates, half-turning her way. “Clu offered to give me his base-codes, but . . . something transferred that he didn’t handle very well. I asked her to watch over him awhile before Senior chased me off – is he normally such an _ass_ with people?”

            “Senior? Yeah, pretty much,” Sam says, biting back a smirk.

            “Security programs are made to be territorial,” Roy once again kicks off the old argument, apparently in one of his rare fighting moods. “How else do you expect them to recognize and handle intruders?”

            “How did he react to Quorra the first time she appeared in-System?” Tron asks, not seeming to hear Roy’s question.

            “Leery and confused, at first,” Sam tells him, following Tron’s gaze to his sister. “Q recognized him, of course. But Senior didn’t know what to do with a miniature Program chattering at him a mile a minute about things he could barely understand.” He shrugs and turns back to Tron, catching the faint smirk of amusement and mirroring it. “Depending on her mood when she tells the story, he might’ve been warming up to her or on the verge of derezzing her when Dad jostled her shoulder to wake her up. His voice boomed across the System as she disappeared, and Senior’s more-or-less accepted her ever since.”

            Tron nods, his brow furrowing slightly as he thinks.

            “Clu?” Alan asks, reaching for Tron’s attention.

            “Entertaining, in doses,” Tron says, smiling a little as he steps closer and sits on the couch arm. Then his smile fades. “The game is accurate. He’s supposed to be an Enquiry Program, not a SysAdmin. Between that and the MCP, ours has never had a chance – he’s always been at war.”

            Another moment of silence passes – almost like they’re in mourning – then Dad huffs and pulls himself out of his chair.

            “Where you going, Flynn?” Tron asks.

            “You’ve made your opinion of _me_ pretty clear,” Dad says, half-gesturing to the bruise developing on his jaw. “Might as well step out before I earn another one.”

            “A Flynn who doesn’t fight?” Tron asks, tone almost taunting, though his face shows confusion as he stands again. “That _has_ to be against the natural order.”

            “Who said I wasn’t fighting?” Dad shoots back, heading to Sam at the door. “Maybe my battles are just different from yours.”

            Maybe,” Tron murmurs, striding to catch his arm. (Alan, the last to stand up, does so to keep Roy from charging.) Dad leans away, but doesn’t struggle as Tron fingers along his bruised jaw. “But this war isn’t finished with you, yet.”

            “‘But’s are for Users,” Dad mutters.

            Sam winces at the old joke as Alan scowls. “That’s a good way to earn another punch, Kev- –”

            “You’ll have to kiss mine some more, then, won’t you,” Tron shoots back.

            Dad blinks, then guffaws and yanks Tron into a bearhug, almost pulling him off his feet while everyone else stares in surprise. “You’re alive!” he half-shouts – then wobbles. Sam reaches for him, only to be waved away by Tron. “Oh, God. You’re alive,” Dad says again, devastation in his voice as he deflates. He pulls out of the hold a moment later. “I thought . . . thought he killed you,” he says, his hands dropping. He ducks his head away; turns slightly and rubs at a temple as he remembers. “So I ran. . . . _Shit_ , I left you.”

            Tron sighs, takes a half-step back himself to look Dad over again. “I haven’t fully forgiven you, yet,” he says, then lays a hand on Dad’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. “But I’m getting there.”

            _“That’s my boy,”_ Sam hears Alan breathe, the entire room relaxing as one while Dad blinks back tears.

            “Sam,” Tron says, leaning a little sideways to look at Sam as he switches tracks. “Can you get your dad some ice? I’ll take the perimeter.”

            “You want me out of the room?” Sam half-teases, already reaching for the doorknob.

            Tron sends him a confused blink, sensing the test. “I wanna keep the swelling down.”

            “Good answer,” Sam says as he steps out and the door swings closed. He takes a deep breath in the hallway, releasing the last of his tension, then goes looking for the breakroom on this floor.

            A couple wrong turns later, he turns away from yet another set of restrooms and finds the alcove for the drink, snack, and change machines sitting to his left . . . which means the breakroom and its two-or-three games is right –

            He stops short at the door, catching sight of a familiar face through the window. Running into Dillinger, Jr is just about the _last_ thing he needs after the soap opera still unfolding in Q’s office, but he’s not going to back out of his mission just to avoid a minor conflict. He grits his teeth and dives in. “Hey, Eddie,” he murmurs, daring to hope the quiet greeting will give the other man a hint to Not Engage.

            No luck. “The fuck are you doing here,” Dillinger demands, dropping his next bite of food. “You scare the crap outta Quorra just to scout your next prank? What kinda fucked-up psycho are you –”

            “One: that’s inappropriate language at the office. Even I know that,” Sam says, mentally rolling his eyes at himself as he starts searching the shelves and drawers for a bag or towel. “Two: I’m not scouting for anything, and my family’s drama is none of your business.” _Eureka!_ Who the hell puts baggies over the garbage disposal? “Three: you _do_ realize the feud is between our dads, not us, right?” He pulls a bag from the box and finds what looks like a fresh towel before heading for the fridge and rummaging for ice. “I’m not against a little poking to keep the spirit alive, but calling me a creepy psycho monster is an excellent way to stay well out of Quorra’s pants – if you haven’t noticed, she’s kinda protective of her menfolk –” he turns and startles back into the fridge, surprised to find Dillinger right behind him and seriously pissed off.

            “You think this is all a game?” Dillinger practically snarls at him. “That we’re just here to entertain you and your bratty little Army pals so you can avoid getting a real life? Think again.” He steps closer, sheer menace almost making him threatening. “Once your daddy and Kleinberg retire, we’re cutting off those stupid games. No more cutesy talks with Disney, no more stipends or loans or bail money. You so much as step foot on company property – even to bring Quorra lunch – and you’ll go in the slammer for the next three decades. Board’s got it all figured out, aboveboard and legal. End of line for you.”

            “Oh, really,” Sam’s mouth says as a chill not from the freezer shoots up his spine, reigniting a realization he’d had earlier. He presses forward, reclaiming his space and shutting the freezer door. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll make sure to pass it on to the other shareholders.” He barely sees Dillinger’s skin pale and eyes widen; the gulp at realizing his blunder as Sam heads for the door with ice bag and towel clutched in hand.

            He pauses as he pulls the door open, mind still whirling as he adds, “For your sake, Ed, I hope you’re just quoting the games.” He feels a little sick, his eyes rising to meet Dillinger’s gaze. “You’re putting more than just your job at risk, otherwise.”

            He finds his way back to the office in a daze, barely able to compute Roy’s animated story or how utterly fascinated Tron is with it. Even though Alan’s partially looking his way when he approaches, it’s Dad who senses the problem and catches his arm before he can retreat, looking a question up to him. “Run-in with Dill, Junior,” he woodenly tries to reassure, “No big deal.”

            “Dill junior?” he hears Alan ask as he slips away from Dad’s grip. “A small pickle?”

            “Nah, I managed to convince Flynn to hire Dillinger’s kid a little over three years ago,” Roy supplies through his laughter, previous story clearly ended. “Flynn still thinks he’s a spy, of course.”

            “It’s either that or Paranoid Papa Bear, Roy,” Dad lazily argues, pressing the ice bag to his jaw. “I’m just trying to follow your No Family Shenanigans at Work rule.”

            “How’d that happen?” Tron asks from the floor, and any awareness of Sam’s distress disappears as Roy rips into another story.

            Which is fine with Sam. He steps back further, feeling a little more anchored, if still overwhelmed at the potential revelation he’s made. ( _What to do? What to –_ )  His eyes land on Quorra, still connected to the System through her desk. ( _Maybe . . ._ ) He slips around the desk and covers her back as thoroughly as he can while still standing, trying not to draw the others’ attention when he presses his hand to hers, partially interweaving their fingers on the flat surface. “Senior. Got a minute?” Sam breathes in Quorra’s ear.

            Q nods faintly out the corner of his eye.

            Sam takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, hoping this isn’t going System-wide. “Junior told you about how the MCP’s alive and well on the Grid,” he starts, eyes opening again. “But he doesn’t know that I’ve been seeing the ‘End of Line’ code pop up all over the place as random junk code in my security work – the military, schools, banks, medical labs, even corners of freakin’ NASA – and I think it’s evolving.”

            Quorra gasps, eyes opening slightly, and he feels her hand shake under his.

            “I’ve been coding up a Program to figure out what it is off and on for a few years, now. I’m gonna need a couple days to rearrange some of his directives . . . but I want you ‘n Clu to train him up. If we’re lucky, maybe we can make him a free download to go with OS12; keep anything worse than the Grid from starting.”

            Quorra nods again, and Sam eases away. She catches his hand in hers before he can get too far, the glow dimming behind her eyelids as they open. “This better not be a set-up for your annual prank, Sam Flynn,” she says, squeezing him hard.

            “God, no Q. I wouldn’t go there,” he says, and pulls her into a hug as she tears up. He holds tight while she regathers herself. “Though, now you’ve mentioned it –”

            She smacks his gut; he laughs as they part again.

            “Clu?” Tron asks, standing from the floor and opening the world up again. “How’s he doing?”

            “Vicious,” she says, wiping her eyes with a shaky smile. “You might’ve sparked a revolution we’ve seriously been needing for the last two years, at least. Senior’s a stubborn old bastard.”

            “Really. I hadn’t noticed,” Tron says flatly.

            Sam feels his shoulders relax at the joke – then his watch beeps, sapping any chance at levity from the room before anyone else can react.

            It’s time to go.


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ready for a curveball? . . . or three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confusions aside, this is the Trigger Warning chapter (and I'll have to figure out how to add it in the tags - I'd rather keep y'all as safe as I can). It occurs in the last section (italicized), and I'm tentatively calling it Rape/Non-Con though it reads more as a possession to me.
> 
> I'll put a summary of the event in the End Notes. Though we won't get very far into it here, there WILL be fallout and recovery from it in Part 3.

**Chapter 14**

_His mind has wandered constantly since he talked with that Program, Samuel. Something seemed . . . bigger with him than any Program he’s met since he started working under Able. Something more on-par with the one time he’d been in the same space as Alan1 . . . ._

_“ **Alan1** ,” he breathes, his drill once again falling silent in the empty garage. The User had been holding a child-User in his arms – one of Beck’s Creators, which Beck had **really** not liked . . . did the child have a name?_

_Something crawls halfway into his lap, waving an extremely miniaturized Program in his face before Zed realizes its presence. [Please Help Find?], it pings at him. [Help Bug Find?]_

_He reacts to the ‘bug’ part first, flinging the strange golden creature off him before the rest can process. It smacks into a wall of tools, rattling them before it lands, cracked and flickering, on the floor._

_Zed scrambles backwards before pulling to his feet, eyes still trained on the . . . thing –_

_“Look alive!” someone shouts into the garage, making him jump. “The Luminary’s guard approaches.” A sense of relief washes over him at the news – **someone else** can deal with that thing, and maybe save the miniature Program in its clutches – before a new fear replaces it. Will they think he’s harboring it?_

_Sentries come flooding into the garage before he can think of anything to do, so Zed’s stuck standing at the entry of his station with no way to defend himself if a guard decides to derez him. He’s stuck watching guards tear up and trample through his friends’ spaces, not allowed to even protest the mess **he’s** going to have to clean up, fix, or repla- –_

_“ – Zed,” he hears the lone Sentry in his station murmur. He dares to turn; sees the Sentry nudge something under his bench with its foot and surprising care. A quick glance around, and Zed realizes his space is still relatively clean and neat, with only a few of his more-durable tools scattered on the floor._

_The Sentry sees him watching, and he jerks back to facing forward again, shaking with new terror. **Great, now you’ve done it** , he thinks. **It’s the Games for you for sure, if you manage to live that long** –_

_The Sentry’s shoulder slams into his as it exits, Jet’s voice whispering, **[Take care of him]** before it leaves . . . and Zed blinks. Thake care of **who**? The only other Program here is Pavel,  and he’s not . . ._

_The bug-thing. It has to be. . . . But why would Jet ask him to protect a **parasite**?_

_Sentries flow out the same way they came in, rendering Jet invisible in the crowd before Zed has any chance of asking. He ducks back into his space again instead, searching for whatever Jet had been trying to hide –_

_[Help Find . . . Sam Flynn?], the bug-thing weakly pings from under his bench, once again waiving the . . . toy – **it’s a** **toy** – at him._

_“Yes. I’ll help you,” Zed says, not letting himself compute **that** revelation yet. He glances up, makes sure Pavel’s still busy yelling his complaints at the lead Sentry before scooping the bug-thing into his arms. “Let’s get you fixed up, first,” he mutters, darting to his bunk in the back, where he deposits the bug-thing under his cot and leaves it with the last bit of energy he siphoned from the storm last week, before heading back to post._

_**‘Little guy who saves the world,’ huh** , he thinks minutes later, twirling a wrench in one hand as he eyes up his latest project. “Wouldda been nice if you’d left us some instructions, Sam Flynn,” he grumbles to himself, getting back to work . . . just before Clu Himself steps into the garage._

_With a red-circuited, blank-faced Beck guarding his back._

_**Oh, shit.**_

*  *  *  *  *

            Goodbyes are a bitch to say, Sam knows. _And it’s even worse when it’s with the only parent you’ve ever known_ , he thinks, mentally thanking God and Tron alike for keeping him from experiencing it as a kid.

            Alan and Tron eventually part, fighting back tears as their fingers dance over each other’s skin like keys on a keyboard. Sam wonders again what that’s supposed to accomplish, only to again decide not to ask – something about it feels invasive, and he half-suspects they don’t even know they’re doing it.

            Tron shakes hands with Dad and Roy, thanks Quorra again for her help (she actually hugs him, which is a pleasant surprise), then they both step out of the office and head for the elevator bank.

            “You said you have a security company,” Tron says after a deep breath, clearly trying to distract himself. He wipes at his eyes again, sniffles. “You’ve also said you break into Encom regularly. What kind of security work do you do?”

            Sam tries to bite back a smile, and probably fails spectacularly. “My company finds and exploits loopholes and blind-spots in other companies’ Systems, breaks in and swipes some crucial tidbit-or-other as proof – that’s my job – and then returns it at the next meeting with a full report on how to narrow or correct the gaps we used, so their stuff stays secure.”

            “You don’t do the hacking or reporting?”

            “Nah,” Sam says, pressing the Down button before turning to Tron. “I’ve got an unfair advantage – Programs always go belly-up when they hear my name, for some reason – and people always get suspicious when they find out the son of Encom’s CEO is attached to the project. They think I’m spying out the competition for Dad, or something.

            “Not that it really matters. Senior and his offspring are the only ones who give me any real challenge, nine times outta ten.”

            “The tenth being?”

            “My rare complete failure – usually when a security guard’s actually doing his job, and I get arrested.”

            “And you still end up advising getting Encom’s Security network, anyway, don’t you,” Tron says over the elevator _ding_ ing open.

            “Kyle might,” Sam says, shrugging as they walk in, “he’s our front-man, the one who does the meetings and reports. I think Sonya might even use a version of you –”

            A third set of ears is revealed when they turn around. “Dillinger.”

            “Flynn.” Junior actually has the guts to not only step into the elevator with them, but turn his back on ‘em.

            Sam tries not to glare at the back of Junior’s head as the doors close and they begin their descent. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed.

            Tron’s elbow bumps his several floors down, maybe trying to break the tension. “What’s your company’s name?” he asks, voice hushed.

            He feels the grin from earlier break out even as he ducks his head to try and hide the blush. “Tronski Securities,” he mutters.

            Tron blinks, then huffs a laugh. “You Flynns,” he says, shaking his head with a sigh. “It’s better than naming a City after me, I guess.”

            “So Dad _did_ do that! I’ve wondered –”

            “Don’t try it, Samuel,” Tron half-warns, half-teases. “After what you pulled at the Arena, Ram, Shaddox, and the boys are probably fielding petitions to rename New City ‘Renegade’ from every Program they meet.”

            “Sorry, who’s the Renegade again?” Sam asks as the elevator settles with another soft _ding_. He grins again as Tron rolls his eyes and groans, realizing his mistake. Sam shimmies in place, trying to keep hid amusement in. “You’ll have the _whooole_ Grid to yourself, if that comes to pass. And you can’t even blame it on me.”

            “I can, too,” Tron mutters petulantly as they pass Dillinger signing for something at the entry desk.

            Sam almost forgets to wave a farewell to the guard station, he’s so focused on watching Tron’s bottom lip poke out in a pout. _So cute – No, don’t go there, Flynn_ , he tells himself, jerking his gaze away . . . . Which probably means he’s already doomed. _Shit, I **do** have a crush. Q was right . . . Have I been flirting with Senior all these years?!_ That . . . seems gross, for some reason. Sam manages to shake it off as they near his bike. “You ever ride two people to a ‘cycle before?” he asks, voice somehow (thankfully) not strangled.

            “Once, when Beck was badly injured. Not a very comfortable experience for either of us – lightcycles are built for speed and maneuverability, not cargo or passengers.”

            “I can swipe Q’s SUV, if you wanna go that route again,” Sam says, offering his helmet. They share a smile as Tron accepts it. “I have a feeling you’ll like this better, though.”

            A moment later they’re straddling Sam’s rumbling Ducati, Tron pressed up all along his back. Sam revs the engine a little, trying to distract himself from the body heat as he kicks the kickstand up and guides them to the exit. Tron’s arms wrap up from Sam’s waist to press against his chest while they wait for a break in traffic to pull out. “ _Definitely_ better,” he purrs, and _holy **shit**_ was this a bad idea. _And I’m gonna love every second of it_ , Sam thinks, heat pooling in his belly as electricity shoots through him. He puts on his extra pair of sunglasses and charges into the first break he sees, making Tron whoop at the speed.

            _Don’t show off, don’t show off_ , he tells himself. Multiple times.

            He’s already made two cars screech tires and honk at them by the time they’re streaking over the Sound, and a whole different sound catches his ears: “Oh, _wow_.”

            A lull in traffic gives Sam a chance to seek out what’s caught Tron’s eye – and feel a little victorious as he drifts to the shoulder. Tron immediately gets off the bike, pulling off his helmet as he approaches the railing to watch that much closer.

            “Quorra’s always liked sunrises, for some crazy reason,” Sam muses upon joining him. “Dad n I’ve always preferred sunsets – one of the few things we have in common that isn’t you-related.”

            “Maybe ‘cause you’re night-owls, and she’s an early-bird?” Tron suggests, eyes shifting from the light over the water to the light in the clouds.

            “Maybe,” Sam murmurs, admiring the golden hue to Tron’s skin. He pulls his eyes away before he can get caught staring, and checks his watch instead. _Made good time . . . we can stay a couple minutes_ , he decides.

*  *  *  *  *

            He can still feel Sam’s eyes on him several minutes later – a fascination and admiration he doesn’t deserve; a faint, vague intent he should probably be leery of . . . but isn’t.

            The wind picks up. Tron closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of sea salt and exhaust and a multitude of things he can’t quite name. Listens to the low roar of traffic behind them, the blips of music and commercials and gossip from radios streaking past. Hears honking, sirens . . . seagulls, and maybe the faintest ebb-and-surge of ocean meeting shore down below. Some small birds kick up a fuss at each other on the wires overhead, and Tron can’t resist looking up to see what’s the matter, only to have the shifting colors in the sky snag his focus again. _This is what I’m fighting for_ , he thinks, hearing brakes squeal softly to their right.

            Only about a third of his attention is pulled by the lady popping out of her car – _no, a police cruiser_ – asking if they’re okay. Sam ambles her way, half-shouting about something called PTSD over the traffic, and Tron feels a smile pulling at him. _This is **who** I’m fighting for_ , he decides, turning to watch them.

            A loose strand of curly red hair flies across her mouth as she looks past Sam to Tron. “Thank you for your service, Sir,” she says, pulling the strand away to tuck back behind her ear.

            “Thank you for yours,” Tron says, nodding back. _Our jobs aren’t all that different_.

            It’s unclear if she hears him – he wasn’t shouting, after all – but she’s merging into traffic again a moment later, another blip in the sea of humanity.

            Sam returns to his side and props his hands back on the railing, fiddling with his fingers.

            “We need to go, don’t we,” Tron says.

            “Yeah,” Sam breathes, regret heavy in his voice.

            They return to Sam’s bike and head on, a weighted sense of ending pulling their shoulders straighter as they close in on the arcade again.

            The area around the arcade is . . . derelict. Not quite as abandoned as the Grid’s Arcade site had been when he led Alan back there twenty years ago – there are still some bars, pawn shops, and a few other businesses strewn about – but it seems to be sliding that way with very little struggle.

            Something tickles at Tron’s skin as they step inside and he waits for Sam to resettle his bike. It feels almost like the tingling itch of a Call, but more . . . ignorable. A shiver races through him at the thought; he only partially succeeds in shrugging it off into the growing twilight.

            “You want light?” Sam asks, reaching for the breaker box.

            “I don’t need it.” It feels wrong, somehow, to have that joyful riot of noise and color break into the solemnness of this parting. He doesn’t want to hear another round of pounding music; doesn’t want to see if FLN or SAM still rank in the top spots on any games (doesn’t want to see what initials Quorra might have chosen, if she’s ever dared to play one). He doesn’t want –

            His hand snags Sam’s over the _TRON_ game still hiding the secret door, another thought occurring to him. “Sam. Promise me something.”

            Sam’s eyes drag up from their hands to his face as he asks a breathless “What?”

            Tron shuffles a little closer, feeling like he’s about to divulge a secret. “Once I’m back in, unplug the laser.”

            Sam jerks back. “What –?”

            Tron’s hand tightens over him. “Unplug the laser, and don’t come back for at least a week.”

            “ _What?_ Why –?”

            “Two reasons. One: we’re at war in there, and I can’t promise any User’s safety –”

            “You think I can’t handle myse- –”

            “Two,” Tron plows on, “I think the virus used multiple digitizations to wreak havoc on Flynn’s systems.” Sam’s mouth closes, understanding dawning as Tron edges even closer. “If it’s adapted to jump between humans now, you’ll already be among the most vulnerable – _especially_ if you’ve come into contact with it on the Grid. So please. Promise me you’ll disengage the laser and walk away for the next seven days, minimum. Give your body a chance to reset and fight off any attacks from the virus.”

            Sam’s mouth opens and closes a couple times; his weight shifts before he answers. “Just to be clear,” he says, his gaze drifting back up from somewhere along Tron’s jawline. “You want the Grid to have zero User contact for a year-and-change, Grid-time.” His eyes narrow as Tron nods. “Okay. Counter-promise.” He pulls Tron’s capturing-palm face-up and digs a pen out of his coat lining. “The arcade’s phone line is still working,” he says, scribbling a couple strings of numbers over Tron’s palm while Tron struggles not to twitch under the sensation. “You need anything – information, supplies, hell, to tell a friggin’ joke – you call Quorra or me.” He releases Tron’s hand; Tron reads through both sets a couple times before deeming them memorized. “We’ll try contacting you by keyboard before taking the laser route.”

            Tron nods. “Deal.”

            Sam blinks and jolts a little away again, like he’d been expecting more of an argument. Then he scowls slightly. “Make sure to pass our numbers on to Ram and the boys, too,” he challenges. “In case you get captured or decide to be stubborn.”

            Tron’s mouth twitches, reminded of Quorra’s description of Senior. He clicks his heels and salutes with two fingers to his forehead. “Sir. _Yes_ , Sir, Sam-I-Am.”

            Sam’s eyebrows take on a confused tilt, but he falls silent as they go downstairs and into the office.

            Tron slows to a stop just inside the door; feels himself curls in a little as Alan’s memories from twenty years ago jump up and assault him. Sam glances over the laser first, for some reason, then heads for the computer; he doesn’t bother with sitting down this time.

            “Two n a half minutes to spare,” Tron hears him mutter, then scoff. “Not enough time to do anything, too much time to do nothing.”

            “Ugh, so annoying,” Tron commiserates, just to make Sam smile.

            “I know, right?” Sam huffs before looking back at him. Then he sobers, straightening as he looks over Tron’s stance. “You know you’re not alone in this, right?” he says, approaching Tron like he’s trying to calm a frightened animal. “We’ll back off and give you time to figure things out on your own if that’s what you want, but we’re not gonna leave you. Never again.”

            Tron stills, the very air trapped in his lungs as he fights off the sudden urge to march over there and _kiss Sam senseless_ , because that _cannot_ be an appropriate response. “I know,” he breathes instead. “Thank you.”

They stare at each other for an endless minute, possibilities building between them, then the laser hums to life, beginning to charge. _Time’s up_. They shift positions like a carefully-choreographed dance, Sam drifting toward the door as Tron steps into the line of fire, staring down the building beam –

            “Oh – Tron,” Sam says in a rush, jumping forward. “Take a deep breath. You might need it.”

            Tron takes the advice, though he doesn’t understand the reason for i- – 

            – His Disk settles into his outstretched hands, the Portal going dark. He breathes out as he holds it before him, looking over the shine as he remembers the silly little speech he made to himself the last time he’d communicated with his User in such a way:

            _“This is the Key to a New Order. This code Disk means freedom for all in the System . . .”_

            He snorts, shaking his head – _oh, how **naive** I was_ – before slotting his Disk onto his back, and sighing. He looks up into the dark skies above, allowing himself a moment to realign to the quiet world of the Grid, absent of the vibrancy of the other worlds he’s been allowed to experience today. Then he locks the memories down and sets them aside.

            It barely takes a step outside the Portal’s innermost ring for the utter _wrong_ ness to hit Tron upside the head – it feels like the Grid is in its death throes, screaming in silent agony. A quick glance around shows him nothing significantly different – he’s maybe a little surprised at the lack of a greeting party on the other end of the bridge, but even that’s not a big concern. He briefly considers diving directly from the Portal and heading home via lightjet, but decides against it. If this is a trap, springing it will tell him far more far quicker than sneaking around and avoiding trouble would . . . not to mention he’s kinda itching for a fight, after all that emotion. He keeps his senses on alert as he walks across the bridge, triggering nothing but more humming silen- –

            A buzzing sound sends Tron ducking and rolling off the final foot of the bridge, Disks activating in each hand as he stands again.

            Red-circuited Programs come swarming out of nowhere, and Tron becomes a whirlwind of movement, hardly paying any note of the red flickering through his own circuits or the growl rumbling from his chest. – It’s been a while since his Rinzler side got out to play like this. That’s all. – The Programs form an ever-tightening bubble around him until Tron is the only one really free to move. A lucky fist sends him to the ground, where he blasts out a shockwave of energy, widening his circle again and sending a multitude of Programs to their backs, several more tumbling over the edge and into the silencing Sea.

            Tron gets to his feet again, heaving for breath while he waits for the next round from the Programs struggling to figure themselves out –

            A Disk comes slicing at him from behind. He blocks and catches the arm, pinning it as his own Disk swings out to slice the Program’s throat – And freezes, Disk humming a bare inch away. “. . . Ram?”

            His best friend stares blankly at him, the red of his circuits reflecting in his eyes.

            Helmets disengage, revealing friendly and beloved faces throughout the crowd, all with red circuits and blank expressions.

            Beck. … Jarrex. … Gem and Castor. … Mara. … Jet. … Shaddox. … Maya and Mercury . . .

            “No,” he breathes, horror filling him as his gaze circles around. “Nonononono.” His legs give out from under him as he meets Ram’s eyes again. _“PleaseGodno.”_

            “There’re no gods here,” Clu’s mocking voice rings out. Tron looks up to see the golden Program standing on the rocks above the landing. “No more of those damned Users, either,” he adds as Jarvis and Yori step up to flank him. He props up a foot to better lean on his leg. “I’ve got you aallll to myself again,” he taunts, smirk growing, “ _Rinzler_.”

            The shock of pain at his dock and the subsequent tumble into darkness is almost a relief from the hell he’s walked into.

*  *  *  *  *

_She snaps a picture with her phone and captions it **‘Three Stooges Reunion @ my place’** before shooting it off to Lora. Her phone buzzes an answer a minute later as she sits back onto her desk, watching her Dad and uncle regale her hero with tales of what he’s missed over the last twenty years. Her skin prickles pleasantly as Tron Senior and Clu tune in to watch from the security cameras and she smiles to herself, glad they can experience this moment with her –_

_Alan chokes on a laugh, gags, and gets thrown into another coughing fit that quickly turns harsher than any of the ones she’s seen before. It tumbles Alan off the couch to his hands and knees on the floor, hacking like the very air has turned poisonous to him. Dad and Roy crowd close to him, offering useless questions, encouragements, and pats on the back as he chokes more and more._

_She wants to join them, to help somehow, but she’s frozen in place, the gentle tingling turning into a burn that races up through her veins from the contact points she has with her desk. **No, stop – please – don’t hurt him – Tron, STOP** her panicking mind screams as the Program fills her senses. Her vision bleaches white –_

**_TRON_ja307020 Requesting Access_ ** _appears in her mind’s eye._

_It’s . . . surprisingly formal, even for him. It calms her and gives her hope. **. . . Access Granted**._

_Her body rises from the desk and slowly stalks toward the three Users in her vicinity. The middle one senses her approach and cringes away, sending out warnings and denials even as he continues to choke._

_The entry to her unit opens, a dark head and pale skin peeking through to ask after the commotion._

_**Identified: Edward Dillinger, Jr. Ignore.** flashes through her mind as she kneels before the distressed User, who is still trying to escape her advance. He waves another denial at her. She ignores it as one of her own hands clench in his hair and twists so he’s forced to look at her; her other hand presses over his chest where something thumps with panic._

_His bloodshot eyes lock onto hers. Something like headlights reflect in his glasses as her mouth opens. “ **You have promises to keep** ,” a trio of harmonious voices tell him, then she blasts energy and codes through the User’s two primary nodes until the User’s eyes roll white and he falls limp –_

_\- And begins to seize, white foam quickly frothing from his mouth. Her body stands and takes two large steps back, giving the other Users space as **User: Flynn** roars, “CALL AN AMBULANCE!” at **User: Eddie, Jr.** , who immediately ducks away –_

_Her knees give way as Tron recedes. She gasps and crawls back-back-back until she hits a wall, horrified eyes never leaving the scene before her as Alan vomits onto the carpet and her body threatens to shake apart at the seams._

_**What have you done?** she asks the silence in her head, not sure if she wants to hear an answer . . . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Summary: a Trusted Individual forces themselves onto another and uses that person to harm a third.
> 
>  
> 
> (In Detail: when Alan has another coughing fit/MCP attack, Tron Senior cons Quorra into letting him take possession of her body so he can blast modern antivirus code directly into Alan. Then he abandons her to the fallout when the results aren't immediately as positive as one might think.)


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tron finds out how bad things have gotten . . . so do the Flynns.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> [Greetings, Rinzler.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once Upon a Time, I determined to have NO Program-in-User-world shenanigans in my fic (admittedly, this might've been back when I was just starting Rescue, so I guess I could still claim success). Then I allowed for a possibility . . . a throwaway line . . . a scene . . . Okay, a chapter . . . with deeply entrenched hooks in the chapters on either end . . . .
> 
> [le Sigh] FIVE CHAPTERS LATER, I've finally managed to shove the User world into the back seat, where it continues to mutter out the foundations of Part Three.
> 
> Needlessly Long Story shortened: If you want to focus only on what's going on here in Renegade, you may want to skip over the (Interlude) sections for now and save 'em for re-reads later. The intent was initially to help show/contrast the passage of time between the two worlds, but it kinda ran off on me.

**Chapter 15**

_Tron’s gone in a flash, leaving Sam to blink the spots out of his eyes. He waits a few extra seconds for the laser to settle and cool before approaching the desk and grabbing the waiting flashlight. He turns it on and heads for the laser . . . only to hesitate a few steps short of it._

_It’s probably not as simple as pulling a plug from a wall socket, and doing so could damage or even destroy other critical functions. He could just put a temporary block around the count-down clock – freeze time, so to speak – but that seems lazy. (Not to mention he doesn’t feel too comfortable about sitting down at a desk with a potentially fire-happy laser pointed at his back, after Tron’s warning. One round of bit-scattering a day is enough for him, thanks.)_

_After some thought, Sam decides to wedge himself back behind the laser anyway, in the off-chance Dad **had** finagled things into working through a simple wall mount or labeled the wires or something. Worse comes to worse, he can call Lora for guidance through the laser schematics. . . . Q has probably already given Lora an update by now, right? Right._

_“A promise is a promise,” he mutters to himself, absently patting at the phone in his pocket._

_It turns out pretty intuitive – for a Flynn, at least. Sam spends the next several minutes loosening some connections and completely breaking others before reaching for the main swi- –_

_He freezes, every hair on his body standing up as he **swears** he hears Jet murmur something behind him._

_. . . Silence answers him._

_Sam exhales, then takes another whiff of ozone as he steels himself. **Must be leftover static electricity, or something** , he tells himself . . . and pulls the plug._

_He waits another minute – for what, he doesn’t know – then wiggles back out and heads for the computer again._

*  *  *  *  *

            He has no sense of how much time has passed when he wakes up. Has it been minutes? Decades? Was everything beginning with Sam’s reappearance on the Grid just a bizarre, wish-fulfilling dream-turned-nightmare? The ache in his bones could be from any one o- –

            “Sir. He’s awake,” Beck’s fractured voice tells someone, and Tron’s heart stutters in his chest. ( _Not a dream._ ) His eyes open to a blank piece of wall; hears and feels engines rumbling under him. He rolls onto his ba- – He stops short, a chain connecting his cuffed wrists to the wall drawing taut before he can even take his weight off the one shoulder. It twinges in complaint as more power drains out, making him grimace – Then shudder as a new horror dawns: His Disk and dock are still completely exposed for anyone in the room to play with. He doesn’t even have enough give to twist around so he’ll have a wall to help him guard his identity.

            His vision darkens as panic sets in. Something rattles nearby, someone breathing heavily and whimpering as Tron feels his knees curl up toward his chest. This is worse than his worst nightmare –

            “You’ve always liked that bit of wall, for some reason,” Clu’s voice rings out, providing a surprising anchor. Tron stills; realizes the breathing and whimpering were coming from him. “I decided it was close, yet out-of-the-way enough for you to keep – at least, until all the imperfections you’ve amassed have been deleted out again.”

            _I’m as perfect as Alan wants me to be_ , Tron almost snaps, tilting his head back to see the familiar sight of Clu sprawled across his throne and not even bothering to look his way. He grits his teeth. A red-circuited Beck stands at ease in the negative space between them, eyeing Tron with a faint curiosity in his expression – more like Tron’s a strange new creature, not the uncle who practically raised him and his broth- –

            _Jet. Jet’s been taken, too_. Tron winces, his eyes falling shut. He has no allies. No friends, no family to call on for help –

            Tron relaxes his neck and squeezes his hands together, refusing to let the darkness swallow him again. He glances at his palm a moment later; fights back tears when he sees the phone numbers still scrawled there. He’s going to have to break free and call Sam as soon as possible. Tell him the Grid is doomed and better off destroyed –

            A door hisses open. “Greetings, Luminary,” Ram’s voice calls out over several dozen marching feet. “How may we serve you?” He doesn’t even glance Tron’s way as his Sentries fill the room.

            Almost against his will, Tron starts picking out faces in the crowd, recognizing and grieving each one as Clu stands and saunters to them . . . with Tron’s Disk already glowing in his hand. Yori melts from somewhere on the other side of the room to crowd against Clu’s far side, sending Tron an almost flirty look as her white circuitry takes on a greenish hue against Clu’s gold.

            “These are your best soldiers?” Clu asks, wrapping a possessive arm around her waist.

            “The best of those who survived the Portal, Sir,” Ram agrees with a slight nod.

            Clu hums acknowledgement, gaze shifting over the group for a moment. Then he releases Yori to break Tron’s Disk in two. “For you, my dear,” he murmurs, passing one to her. She coos and retreats out of Tron’s sight, already poking through it.

            Tron tries not to shudder.

            Clu eyes up the Sentries again, then flings Tron’s other Disk over their heads. It ricochets off the ceiling, against a wall, then is snatched from the air by a red-orange hand somewhere in the middle of the crowd.

            Clu smirks to himself before ordering, “You have two cycles to do anything and everything you want with that Disk, short of deleting the Program on it. At the end of two cycles, _all_ of you will report back to me. Dismissed.”

            Ram nods again, more like a bow this time, before going back the way he came with only the slightest, dismissive glance Tron’s way. . . . And any hope Tron might’ve had that his best friend was still hidden in there is extinguished.

            “Sir,” Jarvis murmurs as the doors hiss shut. “I know you are wise beyond any Program on this System. While I can understand your choice in Yori, why would you grant a random Sentry Program the ability to change your greatest rival –?”

            “Clu had exclusive access to Rinzler’s Disks for almost two years, Grid-time, and has spent the last twenty in User-time quelling his rebellion,” Beck pipes up, then cringes under Clu’s raised eyebrow.

            “Indeed,” Clu drawls, but uncharacteristically ignores the indirect jab at his abilities. “We are well past deadline as it is. Glad as I am to finally have Rinzler home, we simply don’t have the time to waste on fully reintegrating him right now.” He strides over to a terminal, and Tron can barely see a hologram rise up and begin to turn over their heads . . . why the hell are they looking at a schematic for Sark’s ship? “Now that we’ve finally perfected the Grid, it is our duty to teach others how to do the same. When Sam Flynn reconnects the laser – and he will. No Flynn can resist meddling with us for long – we must be ready. Ready to take what is rightfully ours.” An image of the Earth blooms in place of the ship schematics, and Tron can’t help snorting. _**Really?** How stupid is that_ –

            Beck twisting a hand in his hair and putting a Disk to his throat isn’t quite as amusing. “What’s so funny, Traitor? Do share the joke,” he snarls.

            “You realize, outside of the few Isos left, there _might_ be a handful of User-touched Programs that can survive the transfer, right?” Tron taunts Clu while staring Beck down. “Hardly the makings of an army to conquer a _town_ , let alone a country or continent. You’ve screwed yourself over before you started, Clu.”

            “Which is why _I_ have your Disk,” Yori counters. He blinks, a chill running through him as she continues, “How better to find a way out for everyone than to use coding from the only Program who’s been there and back again?”

            Tron feels the humor fall off his face as the chill spreads. If anyone could do that, it’d be the laser control Program. “I’d wish you luck,” he tells her, “but I don’t want you to succeed.”

            “Oh, don’t worry, Rinzler,” Clu says, chuckling as Beck smirks and releases his grip. “I’m sure you’ll find other ways to serve us. You’ve always been so . . . _helpful_ in that regard.”

            Mind spinning, Tron swallows and turns his back on them, at a loss for how to respond. The numbers on his palm catch his eyes again, and he closes them, a new realization blooming within: There’s no point in escaping and calling Sam – for help, or to warn away, or anything else. It’s exactly what they’ll want him to do.

            He’s completely alone in this fight . . . . A fight he’s already lost.

*  *  *  *  *

            _Jet.  …_

_…  Jet.  …_

_…  Jet._

_[He’s heard it, but refused to react every time, wary of trickery. Then a knuckle presses against his thigh on the way out of the throne room, and he recognizes a bolt of familiar energy that almost makes him sob with hope.] **Jet.** [His hand tightens on the Disk, at a loss for what to do next. How to respond.]_

_Jarrex. [He finally pings back when they cross paths again hours later, two ships caught in a maelstrom.]_

*  *  *  *  *

**(Interlude\\)**

_“Dad . . . Dad, it’s happening. Shit, I was **there** , and I still don’t believe it –”_

_“Perhaps you could start at the beginning, Junior,” his father’s voice crackles down the line. “To what are you referring? Has Flynn threatened you –”_

_“No, no – Well, Junior has. Senior still doesn’t believe I exist – no, it’s Quorra. It’s Junior’s new **boyfriend** , who looks like that Bradley guy from the eighties. It’s the **old** Bradley guy, who had a seizure in Quorra’s office, and Quorra, she – shit, Dad, her eyes were glowing, she was acting all weird – said something about makin’ promises in a voice I’ve never heard, and the old guy just **collapsed**.” He clutches at his hair, forcing himself to take a deep breath as the panic threatens to overwhelm him again. “It’s back, Dad. That’s the only explanation I can think of. The MCP –”_

_“If the MCP has revived, you may be humanity’s only defense,” his father interrupts, finally understanding what he’s getting at. “Tread very, **very** carefully, son. Those idiot Flynns have no idea what they’re dealing with. And they will find **any** excuse they can to ruin you.” A slight shuffling sound comes over the line, and he can almost feel his father standing to loom over him, now. It’s equal parts terrifying and comforting, as always. “You are far smarter and more clever than I ever was, my boy. You know the code – I’ve heard you recite it in your sleep enough times while you were growing up. If anyone can do this, it’s you.”_

**(/Interlude)**

*  *  *  *  *

            It’s a rare Program that can withstand more than a cycle and a half without re-syncing with their Disk. Most are irrevocably insane by the end of two cycles. Tron’s endured this tactic before – and with a mortal injury, then – but back then, he’d had hope that help was coming.

This time, his only hope lies in someone he doesn’t dare reach for.

            So time quickly turns interminable. Tron can hardly keep track of it, even with watching Clu taking back and flinging out his Disk again every two cycles.

            It starts to blur with dreams and memories by the fifth or sixth . . . seventh? round. When he feels particularly lost, he presses a palm against the wall, pushing memories of happier times into the coding alongside the desperate prayers he’d etched into it decades before. (Once or twice, he regains enough clarity to wonder why Clu had allowed his prayers to stay here, marring the “perfection” of his ship . . . only to be lost to the blurring again before he can divine an answer.) Somewhere around the twentieth Disk-fling, someone approaches him with a vial of foul-smelling energy and forces it down his throat. His body rejects it a moment later, leaving him even weaker. Someone hisses a curse, and he’s beaten for the mess.

            That becomes a habit, too. Though not a consistent one, even after his body starts accepting the energy out of desperation.

            At one point he wakes (dreams of waking?) to Sam and Quorra singing Renegade again; is able to turn enough to see Yori watching the memory with an almost-fond look softening her features. He presses the sight into the wall in a despairing shot of hope that he’ll be able to analyze it later. The force he puts behind it sends him tumbling into darkness again.

*  *  *  *  *

_[Energy flares, startling everyone to stillness. Music booms overhead, making multiple Programs cower briefly as images of two Progra- – no, two **Users** – flicker through the hallways, dancing and singing along._

_[It’s ridiculous. Totally inappropriate for the situation they’re in. And yet, something within her is bolstered at the sight. She catches herself humming pieces of the song as she works through the following cycles, only stopping when other Programs’ circuits flare in recognition. . . . or when Clu’s Assistant looks her way._

_[There’s something about that Program that **seriously** creeps her out, even after Rectification.]_

*  *  *  *  *

            At another point, Tron thinks he hears Jarrex wondering at how long he’s gone without his Disk: “How’s he doing it? Any other Program wouldn’t even be a streak of voxels melting into the floor by now.”

He can almost hear the shrug in Jet’s voice as he replies, “He’s spent twenty years buffering Alan. Guess it’s Alan’s turn to buffer him.”

            (He thinks he feels a hand on his shoulder; a ping begging him to hold on just a little longer at some later point.

            (He sighs, but doesn’t dare respond otherwise. . . .)

*  *  *  *  *

**(Interlude\\)**

            Marv’s whining pulls Sam from his sleep somewhere between Sunday night and Monday morning. He forces himself to set aside the sense of urgency that’s been plaguing him and do basic upkeep stuff like ‘feed the dog’ and ‘take a shower’ before collapsing in bed for the next fourteen hours.

            His computer eventually auto-saves and blinks into sleep mode, the half-built Program on it already humming with near-desperate eagerness to get started.

**(/Interlude)**

*  *  *  *  *

            _She bites back a wince as they start beating him again; tries to play it off as annoyance or reluctant amusement when Jarvis glances at her. **C’mon, Tron** , she can’t help thinking, **‘Fight for yourself first,’ remember?** He grunts, almost like he’s responding to her . . . but, once again, nothing comes of it._

*  *  *  *  *

            “- _Send me an angel_ ,” he might hear a male sing in a mourning tone. His eyes try to open, but the lids are just too heavy. “ _Here I am ._ . .” A presence approaches. He feels it lean over him and trace one of his prayers with a finger, grief radiating from it. “ _In the land of the Morning Star. ._ . .”

            . . . _Calling for help_ , he thinks, falling back into the waiting darkness . . . .

*  *  *  *  *

            _He eyes the sputtering circuitry and decides he’s waited long enough; plants a suggestion in the young guard’s mind – funny, how easily manipulated the hybrid can be – just in case something should backfire. Then he’s forced to wait six more cycles for the boy to act._

*  *  *  *  *

**(Interlude\\)**

            The whole damn company’s still in an uproar when he walks in on Tuesday morning. Things may have even gotten worse, if the bits and pieces of gossip he catches on the way to his office are any indication. He pauses to ask if Quorra’s gotten in yet, and grits his teeth when he learns she’s once again called in sick.

            The final straw comes about an hour later, when he overhears some faceless underlings in the breakroom debating a rumor that the mess is all Flynn Junior’s fault, and Quorra’s “illness” is her punishment for helping him.

            He _very gently_ puts his coffee down and walks out of the room, unaware and uncaring if his exit is noted by the gossips. His feet guide him past Quorra’s office – where nothing but the vomit stain has changed since Friday night – and he knocks on Flynn’s door before he can think things through. He pokes his head through when a voice calls from within. “Got a minute, Sir?”

            “Not really,” Flynn says, not looking away from his screen or slowing his typing.

            Eddie walks in and shuts the door anyway. “Can you keep a secret?”

            That makes Flynn pause. He leans back in his chair, a wariness developing in his tired eyes. “As long as it isn’t illegal or immoral . . . probably,” he says, rubbing one hand over his face as the other idly presses a button on his desk phone.

            _Best I can hope for_ , he decides, sitting down . . . then his mind goes blank. “I’m . . . not entirely sure where to start,” he says, rubbing his suddenly sweaty palms against his thighs.

            Flynn watches and waits, kindly _not_ suggesting starting from the beginning –

            The beginning. Right.

            “Um. The weekend the MCP fell apart – that Friday night, actually –”

             “You mean when the MCP shut down Group Seven access and stranded multiple programs before they could be finished?” Flynn cocks his head, his mouth twitching. “Yeah, I’m familiar –”

            “When the MCP caught _your_ hacking and shut down Group Seven to protect itself,” he corrects before he can stop himself. Flynn’s face turns to stone. Eddie closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before continuing, “That Friday night, after also learning someone was creating a security program that could monitor and destroy it, the MCP lamented to Dad about how it wouldn’t be able to hack further into the Pentagon or Kremlin.” Flynn blinks, his jaw dropping open slightly. Eddie nods to himself, a knot easing in his chest at the obvious surprise on Flynn’s face. “When Dad told it to knock it off, it threatened him with blackmail and then signed off with another demand to learn Chinese.”

            Silence. Eddie closes his eyes, the next part feeling somehow too personal to share. “He spent that entire weekend writing a letter to Mum and me explaining what had happened, what was _going_ to happen, and apologizing for the part he played in it . . . then Monday morning, he walked into work planning to resign and destroy himself, only to find out the ball was already rolling.

            “I didn’t really get to meet my Dad ‘til I was almost nine, you realize that?” Eddie asks, opening his eyes again. A wave of anger threatens to flood him when Flynn refuses to meet his gaze. “And thanks to your damn _TRON_ games, Dad _still_ has nightmares of getting sucked into that world and being made the MCP’s bitch.”

            Flynn winces. Eddie wonders – and then decides he doesn’t _want_ to know – why.

            “I bugged him into teaching me how to code when he got out. By eleven I was finding loopholes and dangling threads in the MCP’s original coding that no longer existed when it went down – holes nothing Encom had at the time could patch, threads completed with military grade and function. Mum tried to make a Skynet joke about it once, when we were getting too serious about it, only the likening was far too close for comfort and it spawned a new worry instead: what if the MCP crash didn’t destroy it and purge all the extraneous programs from Encom’s system like everyone assumed? What if the MCP had just gone dormant, and was waiting for a key moment to revive?”

            “And so you got yourself hired here,” Flynn says, straightening to lean forward on his desk. “How do you propose we test this . . . _theory_ of yours.”

            Eddie’s mouth opens, but the words get stuck in his throat for a moment. _Okay, this part might be kinda illegal_ , he thinks, clearing it. “I’ve _been_ testing it,” he says. “Practically since you hired me. I’ve been randomly dropping bits of the MCP code into various programs and directories, just to see what’ll happen. Usually they’re rejected within seconds – maybe minutes, if we’re about to premiere a new product or something . . . .”

            “Usually.” Flynn murmurs, eyes narrowing.

            Eddie swallows and girds his loins as best he can. “It slowed way down over this past summer, but the uptick of hackers and data breaches in other companies lead me to shrug it off, figuring it had just been bumped to a lower priority. After what happened on Friday, though, I’m not so sure.”

“Oh, that. It _was_ pretty crazy,” Flynn says with an entirely fake chuckle, his shoulders losing one kind of tension to gain another. “I was there the entire time, and I’m _still_ not sure what-all happened –”

            “No, Sir,” Eddie corrects, then closes his eyes and shakes his head, correcting himself. “Well, yes. That too. But that’s not what I mean.” He pulls out his phone and flicks open the folder on his email before setting it on the desk between them. “I inputted some bits of code after lunch on Friday – several of ‘em pieces that’ve already been rejected a couple times already – and I’ve yet to get a ping back on any of them.”

            Flynn’s face pales, his whole body going still with barely a glance at the phone. “Get out.”

            “It’s nothing that can’t be easily rooted out and deleted,” Eddie starts to babble, half-expecting to get fired in the next breath. “The hardest part’ll be finding where it’s gone –”

            “What you’ve done is threaten the world, this company, _and my children_ ,” Flynn snarls, rising from his chair and planting his fists on his desk. “Get. Out.”

            Eddie gits, almost tripping over his feet with fear as he stumbles out of Flynn’s office.

            Later, when he’s calmer, he’ll wonder how a computer program could threaten Quorra and Flynn Junior . . . outside of, like, setting off nuclear warheads, or something equally as dramatic. _“Would you like to play a game?”_ floats through his mind, but he shakes it out of his head.

  **(/Interlude)**

*  *  *  *  *

            It feels like eons have passed when someone jerks his chain. He’s finally allowed to roll onto his back as it loosens, and the scream of pain from his dead shoulder finally starting to recharge is almost enough to fully wake him before his handler yanks the chain upwards.

            He struggles to obey the command, legs shaking terribly as he rises to his feet. His eyes peel open just enough to see the red circuitry in front of him before his knees give way and he crashes back to the floor, awaiting the next beating.

            It comes in the form of a few absent smacks and kicks around the head, chest, and back, then getting dragged several feet – into a new room, he suspects, though he can’t say why – and then multiple shocks poke along his legs and lower back until he stands again to get away from them.

            The shocks recharge him in ways the corrupted energy couldn’t. His eyes open long enough to see a blurry sea of red surrounding him, and he shudders, head dropping to where he can see his own circuitry – and he can’t hold back the shocked sob.

            The white is all-but gone; the red surging up to take the lead, making his circuitry shine a deep, guttering pink. The Program he was is almost dead; the Program they want back is almost ready to take over again.

            _They’ll regret it_ , something whispers within him, making him shiver. Hearing voices is a sign of insanity, right?

 _So is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different outcome . . . you’re not_ , comes the thought.

            He has no response to that; doesn’t get a chance to when something clicks onto his dock, and a whole new hell erupts inside him. For the briefest moment, he sees flickerings of curious and worried and malicious faces watching him –

            He screams,  _howls_ maybe, through the growl rolling out of his chest . . . . Then nothing. For the longest time.

*  *  *  *  *

            When he wakes, he’s back where he’s always been: curled facing the prayers of his other half. A smile tugs at his mouth, seeing the added memories of _His_. He idly tugs at the chain; purrs contentedly as he codes in another link, just to see if he can. Then he sighs and closes his eyes again, absently listening to his Guardian bawl someone out.

            _Let’s see them try **that** again_ , he thinks, mouth twitching a second time as he drifts into sleep mode.

*  *  *  *  *

_Something within him shivers at the constant purr now emanating from Rinzler’s corner. It should be fear, but it feels more like . . . worry. The Luminary continues to snarl in his face, but his mind keeps drifting back to the other room, where Rinzler had pressed him to a wall mid-battle and whispered **Mine** in his ear, like he had **any** right to claim –_

_He blinks, a new thought coming to him: Rinzler hadn’t harmed any of the Programs he’d once called **Brother** , **Uncle** , or **Friend** , though all four had also been in the room when everything went wrong. How strange. Perhaps he should discuss it with Jarvis, if he survives Clu’s anger . . . ._

_(Cycles later, when the opportunity arises, he’ll suddenly decide it’s not an oddity worthy of the Assistant’s attention – besides, reminding Clu of his impulsive streak **cannot** be a good idea, not when he’s failing again so spectacularly . . . .)_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . It occurs to me that I should maybe add a note about dark themes/elements from here on out. What do y'all think? Is it necessary? :-/


	17. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How close can you wander by Doom without falling in?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot to post today - sorry for the lateness, y'all.

**Chapter 16**

**(Interlude\\)**

            He’s actually frisked when he walks into Encom late Wednesday afternoon, his phone and flash drive confiscated and Dad called for clearance before they let him past the front desk with Leon as an armed escort.

            (“Just . . . tell me the truth, please,” Leon murmurs once the elevator doors close. “Did you do this?”

            “No,” Sam answers. “But I’m here to help clean it up.”

            Leon sighs deep, his shoulders almost going limp with relief as he palms Sam’s phone and drive back to him. “Stay close to me. Things’re edging towards nasty around here, and you’re the primary scapegoat.” He takes hold of Sam’s arm and pulls him out of the elevator as it opens.)

            _Shit, this is bad_. Every conversation goes silent when they see him; the friendliest gazes scowling glares of suspicion as he passes. He has to force himself to freeze when he spots Eddie Dillinger’s back in the hall, the rage at his betrayal almost boiling over – saved only by Leon’s grip on his arm and Sam reminding himself that Eddie got Quorra safely home Friday night and stayed with her ‘til Dad and Roy got back from the hospital. For that, and Dillinger’s near-desperate willingness to fix the mess _he’s_ created, Sam’ll let him slide . . . for now.

            Soundbites from Dad’s news conference are playing from various computers they pass, like their users are trying to guilt-trip him – _must be a slow news day_ , he decides instead – when Leon knocks on Dad’s office door and lets him through.

            Dad looks like a barely-functional zombie when Sam walks in: dead-white skin, sluggish movements, and heavy-dark bags under his eyes. Roy’s only slightly better, his movements a little quicker and crisper – amazing, what a few years’ difference can make – as he shuffles through some papers.

            The popcorn bowl has been long-decimated, its supposedly non-existent butter dried in streaks along its sides and congealing with leftover kernels and salt in the bottom.

            _“- shareholders are bailing from us quicker than a sinking ship, the Board wants you both fired and brought up on charges, and you’re telling me to **wait** -”_ Mackey’s voice crackles from the speakerphone.

            (“Hey, Leon,” Sam breathes, catching the guard before the door closes. He trades his phone for his wallet and pulls out a few twenties. “It’s not part of your job description, but would you mind ordering us some food that’ll last a while – if we’re lucky, it won’t be another all-nighter.”)

            “Considering our biggest shareholder just walked into my office with a solution, yes, I’m telling you to _fucking wait_!” Dad snarls, picking up and slamming down the receiver to hang up. (Leon shoots Sam a nod and exits as) Dad drags his hands through his hair and growls frustration at his desktop.

            “Hope you’re not overselling me, Dad,” Sam says, edging his way in. “Steev may be chomping at the bit for a fight, but that doesn’t mean he’s incorruptible.”

            “Steve?”

            Sam shrugs. “Seems appropriate – he’ll be fighting a Hydra-type computer Program, after all.”

            Dad chuckles weakly, rubbing at his eyes. “Why not Iron Man, then? He’s a tech genius, _and_ he’s cool enough to fly –”

            “He’s also a smartass narcissist on a good day,” Sam counters. “I like the guy, don’t get me wrong, but we need more heart than brains for this one, I think.”

            Dad shakes his head. “You’ve corrupted my kid, Kleinberg,” he complains, a sparkle returning to his eyes as he turns to his friend.

            Roy’s snort of laughter comes out sounding almost like a sob. “That’s what you get when you make me babysit: a patriotic kid who won’t take crap from bullies.”

            “I’m putting that on my resume,” Sam says, sitting down before he switches tactics. “What’s the news on Senior?”

            “Under quarantine and running further and further off the rails, according to your brother,” Dad sighs, the tension lightened but not gone. “Can’t tell if it’s a drive to conquer the system or fight off an invasion that’s causing it – Clu’s still too pissed to deal with him yet. How’s Q?”

            “Getting some girl-time in with Lora. She _might_ be willing to try coming in on Monday, if Steev and Clu get things reasonably sane again. Right now, she’s barely willing to touch anything computer-like. Been having a lot of nightmares, too. Alan?”

            “Mostly stable, outside of the random seizure. Brenner put a rush on things, so we’re getting test results on Friday. You haven’t seen him yet?”

            Sam shakes his head. “Tron was worried the Grid MCP might’ve figured out how to screw with humans – especially ones the laser’s recently scrambled – so I’ve figured steering clear was the safest option for everyone. He even made me promise to disconnect the laser for a week, just in case something tries to slip through.”

            “So we can bring the laser here?” Roy asks, perking up. “Set everything up so we can fix things from the inside –”

            “No,” Sam says, already shaking his head. “The laser needs Yori to operate it, and the only Yori I know of isn’t all that User-friendly anymore.” He tries to keep any hint of reproach off his face when he glances Dad’s way, but he’s pretty sure he fails, going by the slump in Dad’s shoulders.

            “ . . . Oh.”

            Dad’s embedded computer blinks awake with an impatient _CAN I GET SOME HELP HERE PLEASE?!?_ from Clu.

            Sam huffs and passes over the flash drive with Steev’s code as he glances at the camera hanging from the ceiling. “ _Brat_ ,” he breathes with fond – if somewhat sympathetic – irritation.

**(/Interlude)**

*  *  *  *  *

            Cycles pass, and no one questions why Rinzler is now able to sit comfortably against the wall, watching everyone who approaches the throne.

            But then, after the battle heralding his revival, few really dare to look at him for long, either. Even his other half has gone alarmingly dormant since his return, their circuitry holding hardly a hint of orange. . . . (If he has calculated correctly, Sam-I-Am will be reconnecting the laser in ~28 cycles, and from there, they’ll have another seven to eight cycles before the Portal reopens for Clu’s invading army. . . . He will have to make his move soon.)

            His feedings are larger and more regulated, now, and he sees no reason to fight the corruption embedded in the energy given to him. It provides him ample space to figure out what pieces of antivirus work against which kinds of corruption. (He fluctuates between miffed and troubled at how little development has been made in some key areas – areas his other half and their User had long ago solved, or at least narrowed to a much more extreme degree – and how some pieces of antivirus don’t seem to apply anywhere at all. They just dangle in the ether. Perhaps they’re meant for the various technologies that have developed in the interim?)

            He catches the Program called Yori watching him again. Once again, she copies a random piece of code – this one his dexterity with using two disparate weapons at the same time in combat – and inputs it into the laser diagram (as though _that_ would do a transmitting Program any good), only to pout when the diagram again regurgitates the code into a muddled mess. The flaring green in her circuitry suggests she has another goal when she’s doing this – maybe she’s attempting to flirt with him – but he doesn’t really care enough to think about it for long. Yori whines a complaint about her ineffectiveness, and then muses aloud if his other Disk holds the key to what she needs for her project. He allows only a small, amused smirk to shift his features while he stares at her, making her shift uneasily in her seat.

Clu notices it, and is still contemplating something when the Program once called Ram returns with his Sentries. He accepts the Disk from a still-masked Program – Maya, possibly – who bows her way back into the crowd . . . . Then everyone waits, tension and possibilities mounting as Clu considers it, breaking the established rhythm as he idly taps the Disk against a palm for a long moment. Then he demands, “Yori. Disk,” holding out the hand nearest her. She promptly disengages Rinzler’s primary Disk from her projector and approaches him to hand it over. . . . And another long moment passes as Clu weighs the two Disks in his hands. He even brings them close together, like he’s about to sync them. Then he sends the primary among the Sentries with an almost-lazy toss.

            Jet once again snatches it from the air, and holds it close like it’s something precious.

            “You have seven cycles. You will be absolved of your other duties until that Disk is returned to my possession. Be wary,” Clu adds, pointing at the Disk. “That Program can be very . . . persuasive, when he feels like it. Dismissed.”

            Jet nods. A red-orange bubble of Programs forms around him as the group marches out again, tugging a larger smirk onto Rinzler’s mouth.

            “What’s so funny?” Clu huffs absently at him, returning to his throne.

            Rinzler just purrs louder, deciding to move three cycles from now as he leans his head back and closes his eyes.

*  *  *  *  *

_Jet’s shaking when he returns to his tiny designated unit. He holds the Disk gently before him, equal parts hopeful and fearful and **desperate** to see what’s on it. He pulls it close again, partly thanking God for this momentary safety and partly apologizing to his Uncle for this invasion of privacy . . . then he activates the inventory._

_The sight of thick, white beams of uncorrupted coding leave Jet almost sobbing with relief and hope . . . only to have it catch in his throat. **What to do now?** Just because Yori hasn’t permanently damaged his uncle doesn’t mean she’s an ally who won’t use the Disk filled with software meant to fight the virus to destroy them all instead – _

_Someone sends an entry request ping through his door before he can think of a solution._

*  *  *  *  *

            He wakes to rumbling thunder and an empty room about a quarter through the third cycle. Noting the silenced engines, he releases his bonds with a flick of thought and approaches the throne window.

            A barren landscape and roiling clouds greet him; the churning red-and-gold lake in the distance, not so much.

            The sight amuses him – _towering over others didn’t work, so you’re tunneling underneath instead?_ – but what really catches his eye is the huge, nearly-complete ship below him with multitudes of red-circuited Programs swarming over and through it.

            All it really needs is a power source. His time is a lot shorter than he’d thought.

            He presses his hands to the glass, gently breaking down the code so it’ll shatter easier, then turns to the armory hidden in dark strips along the opposite wall. He keys in the release codes – has his Enemy gotten _that_ lazy over the last twenty years, or is he just that predictable? – and stands for a moment pondering which weapons he’ll need. His lip curls, briefly grieving the loss of his primary weapon, then he forces himself to grab a lightcycle/jet baton, as he’ll have a lot of ground to cover in very little time.

            He’s debating on whether he really needs two beam katanas – it feels both like a vanity to have one for each hand, and an anathema not to do so – when the doors hiss open and Clu’s Assistant steps through.

            “How – what are you – get away from there!”

            Rinzler just smirks ( _like this isn’t **exactly** what you’ve been waiting for me to do_ ) and darts for the window, raising his helmet on the way. He breaks through with hardly a voxel out of place, and heads into the clouds the moment his lightjet forms.

            _Only the boys would have enough guts to follow me into a lightning storm_ , he thinks, energy prickling at his circuits, _and even they would hesitate_. He purrs a relieved greeting as his other half stirs and goes quiet, then orients and turns them to their first destination.

*  *  *  *  *

            He lands at the outskirts of the City a little over an hour later and sneaks the rest of the way in – not that sneaking is really needed, where he’s going. The area of desertion has only grown since they formed the lake, the Enemy’s propaganda about the energy in it being corrupted and poisoned more than enough to keep already-skittish Programs away – Not an entirely _in_ accurate claim, though the virus his other half had mistakenly put into the building’s code likely would’ve helped to corrupt everyone faster, if their Enemy had kept quiet. _Oh, well._

            After a quick scan to make sure the area is truly empty, he takes a running dive in. Their User’s instinct to hold one’s breath drives him through the first few dozen strokes, then he shakes his head at himself and starts breathing normally so his other half can recharge. ( _‘Fry your circuits,’ indeed_ , he chuckles.)

            They are fairly buzzing with energy by the time he spots the faint, almost flickering light at the lake’s core. He’s a bit surprised at how much further he has to swim – their then-inexperienced User had virtually flipped this part of the Grid inside-out, making the roof they’d stood on the very bottom of the lake – but it’s still pretty easy to dig out child-Sam’s flashlight. He wiggles down into the hole left behind, widening it slightly and wedging his feet in as he holds the flashlight close. Then he closes his eyes and relaxes, letting the lake’s currents buffet his body to and fro like they had with the flashlight while he inputs the antivirus software and the various other fixes they’ve made over the years.

            Minutes or millicycles pass before he opens his eyes again – and blinks as a new thought occurs to him: Did Sam tell them to take a deep breath because this is still the primary entry site for Users?

            A quick check proves at least part of that suspicion accurate. _We’ll have to come back_ , he tells his other half, letting the Grid listen in, _build a small island or something so incoming Users don’t panic and drown upon arrival_.

            His other half hums a sleepy approval at the thought, offering no other input on the matter. So he replaces Sam’s flashlight – shining steady and bright, now – and launches himself to the surface, the glow of healthy energy racing him there. Sparkling blue-green waves lap at his boots as he comes ashore, as though inviting him back for another swim. _Perhaps another time_ , he thinks, smiling to himself as he sheds his mask. He takes a deep breath, and is pleasantly surprised at how much lighter the air has already gotten. He turns around to take in the view for a moment, and is again surprised when he sees the faint traces of antivirus already branching out from the lake, stretching and pooling into several buildings and streets beyond.

            _Not so alone, after all_ , he thinks, then activates his lightcycle for the next destination on his list.

*  *  *  *  *

_They have to wait several hours for the storm to completely pass before venturing out to Rinzler’s most likely destination – while **he** might be able to withstand the power surges from a storm, his team cannot. He does not know if the team requirement is a sign that he has regained the Luminary’s trust after his mistake so many weeks before, or if the Luminary, in his wisdom, is still wary of the corrupted Program buried in Rinzler’s code – and the influence it might have on him, should Tron revive during the recapturing process._

_While they wait and watch the tracker blip closer to the old Arcade site, he catches himself wondering if Clu really thinks Tron is stupid or naïve enough to be fooled into calling the Users to their own destruction. ~~His uncle is smarter than –~~_

*  *  *  *  *

            Getting inside takes a little longer and proves trickier that he’d expected – he hadn’t anticipated that his other half’s Sentinels wouldn’t recognize him as a friendly, and not fire on or try to fight him – but he finds it more worrisome when he can’t find TRON. He searches the command center, their User’s bedroom, and is on the verge of tossing things around in the garage when he feels a slight weight settle on his shoulder. He jumps away, lighting a beam katana in warning –

            The gridbug skitters back a few feet as well, then tilts its head at him in a questioning manner.

            It’s one of the last they had created – little Bug’s big brother, so to speak – and he can feel it trying to ask him what he’s looking for.

            He feels his other half stir again, uneasy with the idea of a gridbug being able to communicate. He considers the concern for a moment, then sets it aside, deactivating the katana and relaxing his stance while he’s at it. They rarely spoke at all when creating the other Sentinels, he reasons. This one and its brother were created as they explained the true history of the Grid to Sam, so it makes sense that this gridbug might have a . . . wider range of intelligence than the ones made previously.

            With that thought in mind, he puts the katana back in its holster and offers his other hand.

            The bug presses its head into his palm, its silent question buzzing louder between them. He attempts to answer with his own question: [ _Where is TRON?_ ], and a picture of the toy.

            A screech answers him, followed by flashes of Bug, Yori, Beck, and Gem, then settling on an image of Bug holding TRON in a way that made the toy look like it was riding on his neck.

            He sways a little on his feet, a headache blooming behind his eyes as the screech echoes in his ears. A new sense of _That Way_ pushes him towards New City . . . but that doesn’t mean he can leave yet. He takes a deep breath, trying to think through the pain. He needs an anchor for this node to begin the cleaning process, but without TRON, what could he use . . .

            The bug’s head leans heavier against his hand, a sense of offering passing between them.

            That . . . is pretty brilliant, actually. He double-checks with the bug to make sure they’re understanding each other, then cups the bug’s head with both hands and begins uploading the antivirus software. He hesitates when it starts to tremble and glowing cracks form a little over halfway through the process, but the bug pushes him on. Once the load’s completed, the bug steps back and gives a violent shake, its hard grey shell falling apart to reveal a brilliant blue-white body underneath.

            It straightens to its full height with a pleased hum ( _huh, bigger than it had been_ ), then calls its brother close.

            The brother is a bit more hesitant, but acquiesces nonetheless. A moment later it too is shedding its outer shell, but – unlike the first bug, who immediately darts to the other gathered bugs to continue the process – it settles itself on the floor and begins debugging the room.

            He smiles to himself at the sight, thinking of the boys, then once again races the building light up and out – this time losing well before he jumps into his lightjet from the glowing bedroom veranda. Then he allows himself a few minutes’ indulgence, circling the mountain as he watches packs of crystalline gridbugs flood out of the garage and into the Outlands like a meteor shower in the User world’s night sky.

            _Halfway there_ , he thinks, then forces himself to depart when he starts to discern a rainbow of colors in the gridbugs’ circuitry.

*  *  *  *  *

_The trackers have long gone silent by the time they reach the Arcade lake. Only Paige is brave enough to accompany him to the glowing shoreline, though even she hesitates several steps short of the lapping waves._

_He fights the wild urge ~~– almost like a Call –~~ to dive in and go for a swim while running an enquiry on whether any visiting Programs attempted contact with the User world in recent cycles [. . . Negative]. Simply wondering **what happened** to cleanse the lake of its corruption floods him with a sensation like a reviving gasp of air, making his circuits flare as he stumbles back._

_The waves reach for him again, like they’re lunging to bite him; Paige touches his arm, asking in a silent ping if he’s been injured._

_He shakes her off and straightens, embarrassed to be caught in such a feeble, obvious trap. “There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”_

_Their quarry is no longer in the old City, of that he is sure . . . so to what’s left of the new one, they will go._

*  *  *  *  *

            Slipping into New City takes hours longer than expected, even with using his indigo circuitry. Buildings have long gone dark; a heavy rust-colored mist hangs low over everything. Programs are fighting everywhere he sees them, and they don’t seem to recognize or care if it’s friend or foe they’re fighting. (He witnesses multiple times how two gang up on a third, only to turn on each other once the third goes down.) Voxels crunch under almost every step, making the urge to hide virtually pointless, but no one seems aware enough to notice footprints appearing where no Program visibly walks.

            They’ve all been lost to bloodlust – or the Program equivalent, at least.

            [ _How is **this** part of the perfect System?_ ], his other half wonders as they dodge another wild blow, the question alone enough to exhaust him.

            Rinzler ponders the question for a time, then ducks into a relatively quiet alley away from the skirmishes to answer. [His focus has changed. Why waste time with Games and spectators when you can drive all the rebels insane, set them against each other in a designated area, and leave them to slaughter themselves?] It’s a clever idea, really. His Enemy is likely planning to come back and sweep up the survivors for a final Rectification soon, once the population falls to a certain number of exhausted and devastated Programs and/or the gas dissipates.

            His other half shivers with horror, catching onto his conclusion, and goes silent again. Dark amusement pulls at his mouth as he shakes his head at his other half, but he continues without further comment.

            Seeking out New City’s strongest power source leads him to a surprisingly familiar place. Abel’s Garage, dark and abandoned as it looks, is already humming with healthy energy . . . . It makes him hesitate, rescan the emptiness surrounding them. When nothing else appears out of order, he cautiously breaches the perimeter.

            He can feel his thoughts wander elsewhere as he approaches the building; his feet even try to turn aside after he steps onto the walk. He compromises by locking down in front of the entrance to observe the building again.

            Someone is in there, he decides. Someone else with near User-like abilities has found a way to ward off their chosen area so invading Programs will not disturb them, and they’ve likely taken other precautions as well.

            _It’s almost unfortunate they don’t have a choice in this matter_ , he thinks to himself, then walks into the open garage.

            The world plunges into darkness like he’s been swallowed by a black hole. A quick glance around shows every exit has been blocked, what little light from outside no longer allowed to penetrate. He lets his helmet drop and waits for a moment, listening to his own purr in his ears until it threaten to start unnerving him, then pulls out a beam katana to use its blade as a weak, makeshift flashlight to hold over his head.

            He senses more than sees something lunge out of the darkness at him, its growl alerting him to its presence. Instinct takes over, and he slashes downward as he whirls to face it. The thing howls and stumbles back, two more taking its space. When they don’t charge at him, he pulls out his other katana and turns to face the thing breathing down his neck. The new thing brings out its own beam of golden light and flicks it like a whip to disarm him. He lets the beam capture one wrist while his other weapon slashes through it, turning the beam to ash.

            _“Elementary physics,”_ Flynn’s voice murmurs out of ancient memory as the whip slips away, regenerates, and comes at him again, _“Energy cannot be created or destroyed . . . but it **can** be diverted.”_ The thought perks up his other half, who immediately pings, [ _Try to get a copy off one of them – don’t destroy ‘em, if you can help it._ ]

            He ducks away with a smirk, then back-flips to avoid the whip’s rebound. [Challenge accepted.]

            He feels the displacement in the air as one of the pair behind him takes a swipe. He drops a katana to catch hold of its arm and climb onto its back, using it as a shield while he skims a copy from it. The thing roars, feeling the exchange – funny how it sounds more like an engine than an animal – and tries to claw him off while the others hesitate, like they can’t process his actions. It starts shaking like a dog a moment later, when it realizes it can’t reach him on its own.

            He lets one of the harder shakes dislodge him once he’s finished, rolling back to the ground and picking up his katana to reengage the fight while his other half analyzes the code. A buzzing, drill-like sound emanates from the third thing, leading him to slash upward and break whatever weapon was making the sound. The thing wrenches back with its own cry and swipes at him with another appendage that he easily ducks under, the third’s whip coming at him again and capturing it instead.

            Something significantly smaller than the things he’s fighting glomps onto his lower leg a few heartbeats later, pinging the same word over and over again. He doesn’t bother with trying to process it at first, too caught up in the fight . . . and then the things start to back off and disengage.

            [No! Mine!], a familiar voice pings when the whip unfurls with another attempt at capturing him. [Tron!]

            The name startles him, Sam’s joyous face flashing before his mind’s eye as his other half whispers, [ _. . . Bug?_ ] A glance down turns into a stare as he tries to understand the pale yellow _T_ -shape clinging to his leg.

            An oval of white-gold light appears around the _T_ , outlining the body as two thin antennae break past the line to wave up at him. Cautiously, he lets his unencumbered knee bend until he’s kneeling on the floor, still wary of the creatures surrounding them.

            Bug’s grip loosens on his leg in answer, its weight shifting as a forearm pulls a familiar figurine from what feels like its chest.

            The _T_ blinks out from Bug’s back as it holds TRON up to him. [Tron.]

            ( _“Sam recognized you first,”_ he remembers Ram telling them once. _“It took him holding TRON up next to a still of you in your red circuitry for me to realize what had happened . . . for anyone to believe you were still alive.”_ )

            He puts down a katana to clasp the toy, careful not to crush the arm as he struggles to ping back, [Bug. Greetings.]

            Either his sensors have adjusted or light is building back into the area, because he can see Bug cock its head with curiosity. [Tron Hurt?]

            He hesitates, not sure how to explain their duality. [Not . . . good], he says instead.

            An antenna reaches to stroke his cheek. [Bug Help Tron? Make Tron Better?]

            A dual memory – views from themself and from Alan – of the first time they met Alan flashes through his mind, the angles almost identical as he leans into the touch, his other half almost leaping at the offer. [ . . . Okay], he agrees hesitantly.

            Bug crawls up from his leg to his shoulder, then settles itself like a backpack over the empty dock on his back. He pulls his freed leg in under him and sits on his shins, fighting not to shiver or wiggle away from the tickling sensation roving just under his skin while Bug works ( _so_ _much like Sam’s pen stroking over their_ _palm_ ).

            His eyes open sometime later (when did he close them?) to a comfortably-lit garage and Zed peeking at him from behind one of the creatures . . . which looks like something out of the _Transformers_ cartoon, now that he can see them. “Greetings, Zed,” he says without thinking – then blinks. On one hand, his voice is still a little distorted – and probably will be until he gets his Disks back – but on the other hand, he spoke clearly at normal volume, and it didn’t kill his throat.

            He runs a diagnostic to see what else has improved, and finds a few more pieces of malware detection that must be Sam’s invention. “Thank you, Bug,” he murmurs.

            Bug shifts on his back, antennae dancing over his hair. [Tron feeling Better?]

            “Yes, much improved,” Tron says, nodding.

            The tickling sensation eases, Bug petting him for another minute before disengaging and crawling back around to sit in his lap. Tron bites back a smile and rolls his shoulders instead, resettling himself. The lack of Disks still aches like a phantom limb, but it doesn’t feel quite as debilitating as it had before –

            Bug props his forelegs on Tron’s shoulders to better stare him down. [You Heal Grid], he says. [I Help too.]

            “Yes, you’ve helped –”

            [No], Bug says. [You send Brothers.] An image of the command center gridbugs scattering flickers between them. [I Help too. Gimme.]

            “You probably already have –”

 [Give. Me.] Bug says, another leg poking just under the _T_ on Tron’s chest.

            Tron huffs a laugh, in spite of himself. “Is he always this demanding?” he asks Zed.

            “Why are you still reading as a Black Guard?” Zed asks instead, then ducks further behind his creature.

            Tron blinks; raises and shifts a red-circuited hand from side to side like that’ll make it change colors, then shrugs. “Waste of energy to change it,” he decides.

            [Give. Me], Bug demands again.

            “Yeah, okay, fine,” Tron playfully grouses back as he lays TRON in his lap and cradles Bug’s abdomen in both hands. “You realize it’s prob’ly not going to do much, right?”

            An air of smug accomplishment is the only answer Bug gives until they’re almost through with the transfer – then he grows three inches, his golden color brightening to almost blinding before he tamps it back down. He staggers a little as he climbs off Tron’s lap.

            Tron can sympathize, wobbling with sudden exhaustion when he also stands.

            [You need Rest], Bug says, wrapping what feels like an antenna around his leg.

            “No time for rest,” Tron argues, though a nap sounds really, _really_ good right now. He pulls away gently, wary of hurting him. “’S almost finished, anyway. . .” He blinks slowly.  “You got their numbers?” he asks through a yawn.

            [Yes], Bug says. [Won’t need ‘em.]

            “Don’t be too confident,” Tron warns, though not really up for the fight. He turns back to Zed, trying to keep his heavy eyes open. “You find the back door, yet?”

            Zed scowls and turns away, pouting. Tron manages not to snicker too loudly. He thinks.

*  *  *  *  *

_Paige is surprisingly distressed at how far New City has fallen in the wake of the Luminary’s corrective gassing process (corruption breeds violence. He had been the living embodiment of it when they met, so why should she be surprised now?) but he figures it must be some leftover directive from her Healing days – **“To do no Harm”** briefly echoes in his mind – and leaves it at that._

_The warring Programs still show an instinctive fear of Black Guard and back off from their approach. At first it fills him with pride . . . but then he cannot find any hint of his quarry, and the growing looks of horror and pity in the Programs’ eyes as the gas dissipates and they begin to recognize him infuriates him instead._

_He almost snaps at the Assistant when Jarvis pings for an update. But his gaze happens to snag on an old, faint trail of alien/familiar energy that leads out of the City toward the mountain of his birth . . . and a new idea emerges. “Grant me a little more time, Sir,” he says. “I have reason to suspect our prey has returned to his roost to make the call we need.”_

_“ **Granted** ,” crackles over the line. They depart immediately. . . ._

_{Paige glances back as they crest a hill on their way out – ostensibly to make sure they haven’t lost any Programs in their team – and her jaw drops at the golden-white glow emanating from the same coordinates as Beck’s old workplace._

_It’s beautiful. She turns away, deciding against informing anyone of it.}_

_. . . They’re recalled – for a gridbug attack, of all things – just before they reach the mountain._

*  *  *  *  *

**(Interlude\\)**

_Darkness suddenly falls while they giggle over their appletinis. A glance up shows a gold-lined ship blocking the afternoon sun from the skylights._

_“Run, Quorra,” Lora murmurs as she sheds her shopping bags and turns to face a light growing on the far end of the mall, her face going blank._

_Quorra follows orders, still trying to pretend everything’s normal as she retreats, shedding her pedicure flip-flops several feet away so she can walk faster. More and more blank-faced people in multi-colored circuited armor press in around her, mindlessly massing to push her toward the light. She uses her own shopping bags to bat them away and give her space to push forward._

_Something screeches and shatters behind her, making her freeze for a heart-wrenching beat. [A bomb goes off, shaking the entire building to its foundations.] Then she drops her bags and pretenses and **runs** , her bare feet dodging between burning pools of glowing energy and glass shards as she tries to ignore the screams chasing her. Wires spark at her passing as the destruction grows. She ducks as Disks and shouted orders fly at her in the pitch-black mall, whipping around a corner –_

_She smacks face-first into a blue-and-yellow striped tie, startled hands grabbing her elbows to steady them both as the person stumbles back from the blow. She almost sobs with relief at seeing the fabric, hope rising as she looks up._

_The SysAdmin sneers out of Alan1’s face. “Must be so **lonely** out there,” he says, leaning forward as his hands become claws. “So tragic, to be the **last one** –”_

            Something cool and wet laps at her fingers, breaking her chain of thought. Whining reaches her ears as her mind struggles to reset. “Eww, Mar- _vin_ ,” she complains, nearly rubbing her slobbered hand over her eyes. She wipes it on Sam’s couch instead and stretches, the panic of the dream slowly starting to fade. Then she relaxes with a sigh and scoops the dog up onto her belly for a hug. “Thanks, buddy.” She gives him a good long scratch as he pants a grin at her, then he whines again.

            “Nope, still don’t speak Dog,” she says, sitting up as she lets him tumble back to the floor. “Are you asking for food or an outing?”

            Marvin sits at her feet and yips, telling her nothing. She sighs and leads him to the kitchen, where he immediately uses the doggy door to go bark at squirrels as the sun sets.

            Her phone buzzes on the counter again while she’s making a cup of tea to soothe her headache. She eyes it, then warily pokes at it. When it only jostles slightly at the touch – no zinging energy or looming threats of destruction shoot through her fingers – she picks it up and squints against the glowing screen.

            Her text box has blown up since Monday morning. At least half of ‘em are from unknown numbers asking, urging, and demanding answers for the greedy and panicking masses after Dad’s press conference. (She deletes them with hardly a glance.) Another third come from friends and coworkers asking what happened and if they can do anything to help. (Her vision’s so blurry with tears she can’t even finish reading the third one. _Not so alone after all_ , she thinks, vowing to reply later – _en masse_ , if she has to – before exiting out.)

            The last couple-dozen are semi-regular updates from Dad, Roy, Sam, and Eddie on how far Encom’s System has fallen over the week . . . and how steep a climb it still has to make to balance out again. “ _Think we’re finally seeing a light_ ,” Sam’s latest text says. “ _Lets hope it aint a train_.”

            She huffs a laugh to herself, and starts typing a reply that she’ll come in and straighten everything out with Clu’s help in twenty minutes flat tomorrow – only to have the thought of Tron Senior watching her through the cameras leave her shaking and nauseous; a warm little body pressing against her shin the only thing keeping her from jumping out of her skin with panic. She blinks against the growing twilight and sets the phone aside as Marvin’s shiny eyes gaze up at her. “You deserve something special, kid,” she says. “Even if you’re a rat masquerading as a dog.”

            Marvin barks his usual rough, high-pitched censure, then starts jumping and dancing around when she reaches for her jacket. “How’s a burger sound?”

            He howls joyfully, _far_ too familiar with that word, making Quorra laugh as they head for her car.

            {Her phone buzzes again as they leave the house, a message from Encom – “ _Ive got him._ ” – lost to the darkness.}

**(/Interlude)**

 


	18. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spiraling deeper . . .

**Chapter 17**

**(Interlude\\)**

            “You’ll need to sit down,” Dr. Brenner tells them when he walks in the next afternoon. Sam and Quorra clasp hands, Roy and Lora each pressing one of theirs to Dad’s shoulders, all of them holding their breath.

            With only two visitors’ chairs in the room, it’s really the best they can do. Dr. Brenner tries not to sigh too loudly at it as he takes his own chair and clasps his hands over the folder with Alan Bradley’s test results.

            “Good news is, it’s the same cancer we pulled from Mr. Flynn twenty years ago,” he begins. “Bad news, it’s metastasized throughout his body – frankly, it’s a miracle he’s still breathing on his own.” He pauses when Lora gasps, a hand darting up to catch the sob about to escape. Roy wobbles on his feet, and Sam’s grip tightens. “All we can really do is keep him comfortable. If he wakes up at all, it’ll likely just be long enough to say goodbye.”

**(/Interlude)**

*  *  *  *  *

            He’s pretty sure he falls asleep at the wheel at least twice in his journey from New City to the Portal . . . . He jerks awake before crashing and pulls his lightjet out of its nosedive for a third time before recognizing the shoreli- –

            A bolt of energy that almost hits his wing really wakes him up. He dodges another brassy streak, only to have two more slam into his belly – one stalling the engine, the other disintegrating it – and he barely has time to leap off and roll into his own landing as it crashes into a pillar on the verge of detaching itself from the cliffs by the Sea.

            After a moment of letting his scrambled mind catch up, he realizes he’d left TRON behind. “ _Damnit_ ,” he breathes – and has to force himself still along the edge of his plateau as a tank and several lightcycles converge at the crash site about thirty feet below.

            Beck immediately jumps into searching the wreckage, leaving Paige to direct their Sentries to search the immediate area. Her foot catches on something several strides out that makes her pause and step back, and Tron growls to himself as she picks up a familiar, beloved shape. She turns TRON gently in her hands as she looks it over, then glances up to the cliff –

And right at him.

            They stare at each other for a couple heartbeats (she _has_ to see – to recognize – him. Using camouflage this close to the MCP would be pointless, even if he had the energy to spare) then her gaze drifts away before settling on TRON again. The color of her circuitry seems to shift every-so-slightly as she stares at the toy, then she takes it to Beck, pulling him from his search.

            Beck handles TRON with even greater care and reverence than Paige had (an almost bizarre sight to witness. Jet’s always been the more careful of the Twins) as she says something – a question, going by her expression. He gives her a backhanded slap across the face in answer.

            Tron roars without thinking, surging to his feet and jumping dow- – then gets blasted onto his back by multiple pulverizing shots.

            ‘ _Well, that was stupid_ ,’ races through his mind before he blacks out.

*  *  *  *  *

            _His eyes dart between flickering Program and toy, his thumb hovering briefly over its button before he tosses it aside. “Nice work,” he mutters to his mate, sauntering away to needlessly order their Sentries to retrieve their objective – not like they deserve the glory, anyway._

_{Cheek still stinging, Paige waits until his back is turned to pick up the toy again, pocketing it for later contemplation.}_

*  *  *  *  *

            Rumbling engines. A heat smell on the edge of burning. Light stabbing into his closed eyes.

            These are his first sensations as he comes to. Then he feels his body’s awkward positioning: knees bent and splayed, forearms parallel to his head, and he’s leaning forward on something that’s sucking at his chest. There’s also a burned, coppery taste in his mouth. He rolls his tongue and smacks his lips, trying to dispel it without success. His head wobbles a little as he lifts it; his vision blurring as he attempts to look around.

            Programs are talking somewhere behind him, too quiet to make out over the hum surrounding him. He’s back in the throne room, but his contraption has replaced the chair and he’s facing what’s left of the window. A constant, cool breeze from the far edges of the window frame tells him they’re on the move, but not where they’re going or any hint of what’ll happen when they get there.

            He feels almost as awful as he had before they re-synced him with his Rinzler Disk, but not as muzzy-headed. It feels like he’s fully powered, yet locked in a data loop at the same time. _They think they’ve won and want me to watch them gloat over how thoroughly I’ve failed_ , he thinks, starting to sit up – Electricity _zing_ s through him, the sucking sensation turning painful as lights flare all around him until he falls limp and gasping. _Oh, I’m tied down_ , he belatedly realizes.

            “ _Day-um_ , that’s some fine craftsmanship,” Clu hoots somewhere behind him. “It’s too bad your pal Zed didn’t have the guts to choose a side. He could’ve been useful.”

            “Yes, Sir,” Beck murmurs without the slightest hint of reproach, irritation, or grief.

            _Zed’s not dead_ , Tron almost argues – only biting it back over the terrible rhyme. He grunts instead as the sucking shifts down from _painful_ back to _unpleasant_ again, feeling even worse. _What the hell is this thing about?_ , he wonders, trying to get a better look as he senses someone approach him from behind.

            Fingers trail almost-absently along a circuit on his arm, creating an empty ping. His head lifts again just as Yori bends down, their noses bare inches apart. “Mornin’, Sunshine!” she half-shouts, overly cheerful.

            He winces at the volume, then lunges to snap at her with his teeth in the same breath, creating another electrical surge that again leaves him limp and gasping.

“Oohh, so feisty!” She laughs over the pain, her circuitry flaring greener as her fingers trip back up his arm to pinch his cheek. “I’m _so_ looking forward to playing with you.”

            His previously-absent purr comes out as a growl, making her laugh again as she releases him – _(Since when did Yori pinch cheeks?)_ – “Yori, what are we looking at?” Clu calls.

            He thinks he hears her say something about a twenty-percent charge as she walks away, but he’s focused more on whether it’s safe enough to take a deep breath when the sucking eases again. _Why am I acting so impulsively?_ , he wonders after the breath only causes a mild spike of warning. _This is more Flynn-style than mine._ He risks a diagnostic – a deeper one than what he ran while Bug was working on him – and discovers he’s no longer a Program carrying disparate parts of another Program and a User. He is a single, completely unique being now. Has been for a while, actually, he just hasn’t looked into it before.

            Will getting his Disks back destroy this new creation, or strengthen him further? – Could they even be considered _his_ Disks anymore, after so many Programs have messed with them for so long?

            “Intense emotion _does_ appear to charge things quicker,” Yori says, breaking into his thoughts as she wanders to an unbroken edge of the window, hands fiddling with something as she turns and leans along the side. “But we need to be cautious. Keeping him at that level may drain him too fast to replenish, and if he disintegrates before everything is charged or the Portal opens –”

            _They’re using me as a **fucking battery**?_ His fists clench, teeth grinding and circuits flaring as the sucking increases . . . slightly, a tiny gap developing in the process. _Shoddy work, if it starts breaking down after a couple surges . . . . Unless that’s the point?_ He resists the urge to poke at the gap, wary of giving them any more advantages.

            “How much time do we have before the laser reactivates?”

            Yori pauses her fiddling; squints as she calculates. “. . . Less than a User-cycle,” she decides, her eyes flicking Tron’s way, “ _if_ Sam Flynn reconnects everything at the minimum time limit. If he’s angry or reluctant about following orders, he may drag his feet to express his displeasure.” She nods back toward Clu. “You would be our reigning expert on that, Sir.”

            Tron barely avoids releasing a snort. He closes his eyes and bites his lip to hold back his amusement, half-wishing he could see Clu’s face at the reminder that he’s a Flynn, too. The sucking eases from his chest some more, the gap widening. He dares a deeper breath.

            Yori’s looking at him when his eyes open, a _knowing_ in her gaze as the green in her circuitry deepens further.

            Tron goes still, the humor fading.  _. . . What are you up to?_

            White lines flick on in her hands almost in answer, pulling his focus downward – and his breath catches against his will.

            TRON is on full display, the malware and antivirus codes obvious to anyone who might glance their way, but Yori just keeps playing with him: twisting the head in circles until it threatens to pop off, raising one arm and flinging out the opposite leg while she continues the conversation Tron himself can’t be bothered to hear.

            Eventually the discussion starts winding down, and she balls up the figurine as tight as it’ll go, its circuitry still blazing under the wedged-in button. Then she straightens everything out after Clu turns to leave, returning TRON to his classic pose. She presses TRON up along the edge of the window, her palm mostly covering his light as someone asks her a question, She shifts . . . and the light disappears as TRON slides out past the broken frame. “Oops,” she coyly murmurs Tron’s way before sliding back to her work.

            Tron’s only response is to turn his face away, tracking TRON’s fall through the Grid as best he can down – down – down – until it disappears into the Sea.

            _Is it close enough?_ He won’t find out until the Portal activates . . . and then it’ll be too late. “ _Damnit_ ,” he breathes, the sucking intensifying against his chest again as distress washes over him. _So close_.

*  *  *  *  *

            _He feels the cleansing pulse and, with his brothers’ help, sends out the Call: [ **Grid in the clear. Give one more week for fallout.]** Then they get back to work._

*  *  *  *  *

**(Interlude/)**

            Sam startles as his phone buzzes, and he shows them the text from the arcade’s phone number.

            “Why the holdup – what ‘fallout’ is he talking about?” Flynn asks.

            Sam shrugs and glances at his phone like he expects it to answer for him. “Debugging Jarrex and the others, maybe? Getting Clu and his sweetheart into lockdown, like what we’re doing here? Assessing and rebuilding the damage –?”

            “Jarrex,” Flynn murmurs. “Why does that name sound familiar . . .” He closes his eyes, probably visualizing. “I see a guy jumping off a motor- _light_ cycle and crashing into two others playing chicken with him . . . .” One eye squints open. “Why?”

            “A . . . Program did something like that to protect Alan, right before Tron showed up twenty years ago. I remember you were really impressed . . . but, no,” Sam says, shaking his head. “That one derezzed. They can’t be one and the same.” He pauses, thinking. “Can it?”

            “I didn’t make so many programs that they had to double-up on names,” Flynn says, going still as he thinks it through. “I _did_ set up an algorithm in the game arenas that sent derezzed programs to a temp-file folder where Tron, Clu, or I could re-rezz ‘em later. We’d even talked about extending it into the city as a safety net for gridbug attacks and other emergency situations.”

            “So anyone caught naysaying Clu got sent to the Games, where they’re eventually derezzed, and then Clu has all the time in the world to twist and corrupt them into whatever he wants ‘em to be,” Sam says, looking a little sick. “The more you fought him, the stronger he got.” He mutters something Roy doesn’t quite catch (“Brainwashed hostages”?), but no matter.

            “Something I find more concerning,” he says, hating to drag things down further. “How did Tron figure out how to text? None of the arcades’ phones are really built for it.”

            Both Flynns wilt a little at the question, a new wariness growing as they process it could be a trick.

            “How ‘bout this,” Roy says, shifting his weight as he tries to reinject some hope. “I’ll reconnect the laser on the way home in a couple hours, but leave the activation clock frozen. We’ll be halfway, then, if they need anything. The laser still only opens from our end, right?”

            Flynn, then Sam, nod reluctantly.

            “And maybe,” he adds, “once he’s trained, we could copy Steev over Sunday night or Monday to assess things, and figure out what to do from there.” Father and son both perk up at that, accepting the compromise before getting back to work.

**(/Interlude)**

*  *  *  *  *

            They take Yori’s warning to heart, poking him only once or twice a cycle to draw out an energy boost, and increasing to roughly every other millicycle when Yori senses the laser getting reconnected.

            The gap keeps widening, so he acquiesces to their attempts – it still drains him, but he recovers quicker every time. It’s actually getting to a point where he’s having trouble appearing drained after every extraction, and someone’s bound to notice sooner than later. Time is running out, too – they’re over three-quarters of the way to fully charged, and the laser’s countdown should activate within the next couple cycles.

            They’ll be bringing out the Big Guns soon – he’s a little surprised they haven’t already, to be honest – and Tron’s dreading to see what that’ll look like. . . . And almost as though he thought it into being, Tron slowly wakes from his dozing about three cycles away from laser activation to the sense of being stared at. A quick scan of the area reveals –

            “We’re alone,” Ram voices from the floor between Tron and the throne window.

            Finding it true, Tron opens his eyes, heart aching when he sees the juxtaposition of casual posture and red circuitry. _Here we go_ , he thinks, the suction already increasing a micron. “Ram –” his throat suddenly chokes with a multitude of thoughts that boil down to _I’m so sorry_ , _What happened while I was gone?_ , and a wildly desperate _Tell me this isn’t you – you’ve just found a way to play along_ , leaving him mute.

            Ram’s circuitry brightens, a scowl flitting over his features in answer.

            Tears sting Tron’s eyes, hope dying again. _‘Ram’ isn’t your name anymore_. The sucking increases more as his head drops, his eyes squeezing shut. “What’re they calling you, then?” he asks through a tight throat, a tear slipping past his lids to splat on the floor. Circuitry flashes quick as lightning and disappears with the energy, a new rumble adding itself to the hum surrounding him.

            “Does it matter? It’s not like you’ll use it.”

            Tron lifts his head, but decides against arguing – they both already know it’d be a lie, so why waste his breath? “What’re you here for?” _The sooner this starts, the sooner it’s over_.

            Ram tilts his head up and eyes Tron for a minute, the thumb of his upper hand idly circling the fingers’ nails like Tron does when he gets really worried; Tron tries not to take it as a signal for hope, and knows he’s failing spectacularly even as he thinks it.

            “You’re still fighting for them,” Ram finally says. “Why? All the Users we’ve met have only caused trouble and chaos, then demand our whole attention for themselves while we’re trying to fix it.”

            Tron blinks a few times, needing the extra second to compute. “That summary fits Flynn pretty well, back in the day . . . I can see a milder version of it for Sam, at times. But Alan?” He manages to shift his weight slightly as the sucking eases. “The only time it _might_ have fit him was when he first came to us – when he broke me free of Clu and decommissioned the Resistance –”

            “And left everything up for grabs just to put on a show for Clu while your body almost killed me.”

            “You signaled the boys not to interfere, Ram,” Tron argues. “They weren’t even a cycle old yet. Did you really expect them to think for themselves and act against clear orders?” Ram’s jaw drops. “Not that you really needed the backup anyway – something Alan and I argued over, even though I wanted to keep you as far away from Clu as possible –”

            “You argued with your User?” Ram asks, the red in his circuitry paling ever-so-slightly. Then his jaw firms, the color intensifying again. “You thought I wasn’t strong enough. You expected me to fold up whimpering at the first sign of conflict, didn’t you –”

            “ _Excuse me_. Who’s the only Program that can challenge me? Even Flynn had to fall back on his User privileges just to keep up with me half the time, which drove Clu up the wall so much it was ridiculous –”

            “Imagine how much better you would be if you were already perfected,” Ram croons, sounding almost alien as he shifts onto his feet so Tron has to look up at him. “No more challenges. No mistakes. No change, because everything’s already working at its maximum potential –”

            “No exploration, no learning, no growth,” Tron counters. “No new paths that bring new discoveries, no questions to be answered, no revolutionary ideas to test.” He shakes his head. “Your so-called perfection is static. Frozen and lifeless. ‘Perfect’ is friggin’ _boring_ –”

            A fist slams into his jaw, the suction increasing as he’s jolted off-center by the blow. It’s a bit of a struggle to re-center himself so the suction eases again,  pieces of the tube even crumbling under his weight, and by then, Ram’s almost out the door. “You’ve owe me that and more for twenty years,” Tron calls out, voice a little shaky as he idly licks at the already-healing cut on his lip. Ram’s footsteps fall silent. “I’ll consider this a down-payment.” _Nothing to_ _forgive_ , in other words.

            He can feel the embarrassed rage exit the room, leaving him completely alone for the first time in ages.

            His breath catches as he waits . . . then he starts picking at the gap in earnest.

*  *  *  *  *

            The sucking is all-but nullified when he lets himself drift off to sleep again . . . only to wake up to a sensation of _slime_ oozing over his circuits and dock some indeterminant time later. He instinctively tries to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go . . . and now he’s alerted the Program to his wakefulness.

            “My, my. What have we here,” Jarvis says, crowding up against his back as a hand drifts down from Tron’s shoulder to the tube at his chest. “Looks like _some_ one’s been playing with things he shouldn’t,” he purrs into Tron’s ear.

            Tron’s nose curls at the rancid stink on Jarvis’ breath, but he doesn’t respond.

            “Here, let me fix that for you,” Jarvis adds, caressing the tube and rebuilding its code.

            Tron’s next breath is a cut-off gasp, the suction increasing to at least double its original worst. _This shouldn’t be possible_ , he thinks frantically, fighting for air.

            “There. That’s better,” Jarvis says, petting his hair before melting away elsewhere.

            Tron might hear someone ( _Yori?_ ) crash into the room yelling before he blacks out –

*  *  *  *  *

            The suction has eased to about three-quarters of its original strength again by the time he comes to. Considering how awful he feels, he’s pretty sure he’s only alive because the Portal hasn’t lit yet . . . which is odd, if his sense of passing time is anywhere near accurate.

            Jet and Jarrex have taken up positions to either side of the window, facing the room, and they tense protectively every time that slimy sensation wanders his way –

            “You’re on tender hooks already, Jarvis,” Yori calls out in an angry-sweet voice. “I’d hate for Clu to have to train a new Assistant simply because you got too excited to listen.”

            “And what, pray tell, are tender hooks?” Jarvis asks, the slime ambling into the far edge of Tron’s vision. He watches Jarrex tense further as the Assistant leans toward Yori. “What are they used for, and how do you know anything about them –”

            “While my Resolution might be younger than yours, I’m a far older Program,” Yori reminds him, lifting an unimpressed brow. And then her chin as she side-eyes him. “And now you’re also distracting me from _my_ work. Are you acting out to get Clu’s attention – feeling a little neglected, perhaps?”

            “Enough, both of you,” Clu barks over the hiss of closing doors. “Where the hell is he?” he mutters.

            “As far as I can tell, there’s no one in the –”

            “Not asking you,” Clu snaps at Yori, voice shifting like he’s pacing with frustration.

            _The MCP hates unanswered questions_ , Tron remembers, breath catching. _But Encom’s Clu is always asking questions . . . . Are you still in there, twenty years later?_ He cocks his head to hear the conversation better, a new hope he doesn’t dare put a name to sparking awake within him.

            “I’m tired of waiting,” Clu tells no one, something creaking softly. “We’re doing this now.”

            Tron tenses as footsteps approach him. Jet and Jarrex share a look, then back away from his field of vision.

            “Sir, we don’t know what that’ll do,” Yori says frantically. “At least let me look it over before you –”

            _Click_.

                        **Power –**

                                    **_Light –_**

 ** _SCREAMING EXPLOSION_**. Endless . . .

                                    . . . Darkness swallows him.

*  *  *  *  *

**(Interlude\\)**

            Power surges, knocking out the electricity and rattling the ground up to two blocks surrounding Flynn’s Arcade. The police are called. The electric company and even Homeland Security are notified.

            Nothing will be found, the laser long gone cold in its hidden office well before anyone pinpoints the epicenter. Authorities will eventually shrug it off as an odd, extremely isolated earthquake, but urban legend buffs and conspiracy theorists will run with it . . . and come much closer to the truth.

**(/Interlude)**

 


	19. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the final battle for the Grid commence!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last full chapter of Renegade. I'll post the Epilogue later this week - I'm thinking Wednesday/Thursday-ish, so swing back around soon!
> 
>  
> 
> Also, one last time, but with a slightly different take: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATrldRAp5JY (meet Sam n Dean)

**Chapter 18**

[ _How is he?_ Jarrex asks, stepping inside.

_He’s okay – brilliant, even_. Jet answers. _She hasn’t_ – ]

 

[ _Renegade who had it made_ –]

 

                        [ _Gamma Sector’s set_ , Maya reports. Then hesitates. _Slow-going, though. Almost like the antivirus is waiting for something. A si-_ – ]

 

[ **Does he only fight for the Users?** she asks, the skin of one cheek already darkening as she presents the toy.

**No. He fights for all of us.** Their hands clasp over the budding bruise.

She thinks a moment, gaze flicking down to TRON before rising again. **I’m in** , she says, nodding.]

 

[ _Nevermore to go astray_ –]

 

[ **I’m sorry about the harm I’ve caused you** , she murmurs into the humming silence. **I hope we might be friends again, once this is over**. ]

 

[ **_Heed this Voice / From deep inside_** , he sings again, though his hope is long-lost.

**_It’s the God of your_** _**heart .**_ **.**. ]

 

[ **_WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_** She yells. **Are you _trying_ to derezz him –**

**Not at all** , the slimy voice answers. **Why did you set the energy absorption so low –?**

**If Clu hasn’t told you, then it’s none of your business** , she snaps, not bothering to hide the snarl in her voice. ]

 

[ **God – _Please_ – . . . Are you still in there?** ]

 

[ _Close your eyes / And you will find_ , he dares to whisper,

_The way out of the dark . . ._ ]

 

*  *  *  *  *

_Here I am_ , he thinks as he wakes up, laughing breathlessly. He tamps it down long enough to hear some of Clu’s speech – why is he demanding _and_ begging for loyalty from Programs he’s already enslaved? _Seems redundant_ – before he kills the suction and reaches for the Grid through the dying ship.

             “Oh, Mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law,” he sings to the Grid like a lullaby. He feels multiple recognition pings light up behind him in time with the music in his head. He sings louder, “Law-man has put an end to my runnin’ and I’m so far from my home.” More pings alight, and his confidence grows. He taps into every speaker in his reach, forcing Clu’s voice to fade as he sings the next part: “Oh, Mama, I can hear you a-cryin’. You’re so scared and all alone.” He snaps his bonds to the beat and settles on his shins, but waits to rise. “Hang-man is comin’ down from the gallows, and I don’t have very long. . . .”

            He lets the beats drag as he stands and looks around, pinging his allies silent instructions – sees Yori grab Ram’s arm and fight back a smile as he shifts threateningly – and giving them time to choose their first targets . . . then he turns to stare Clu down through the hole-that-was-a-window. _This one’s mine._

            “What? You think a song will scare me?” Clu taunts him from the platform below, voice echoing.

            _Yes, Clu. I see you now._ Tron smirks, the laughter bubbling out of him again and resonating through the speakers as he shakes his head at the MCP’s greatest victim, his flickering circuitry settling to more-white than red. He takes a running jump through the window with an “ _OHHH –!_ ”

            He lands on the platform as his allies pick up the chorus and create chaos in the ranks ( _The jig is up, the news is out –_ _they’ve finally found me_ _–_ ). Jet and Jarrex follow him down half a heartbeat later. ( _The Renegade, who had it made, retrieved for a bounty –_ ) Beck and Jarvis rise to Clu’s defense; Jet and Jarrex redirect them respectively as Tron approaches. ( _Nevermore to go astray –_ )

            “You expect to win this time, Tron?” Clu asks, seemingly unsurprised at the change of loyalties as he reaches for his Disk. ( _This will be the end today_ _–_ )

            ( _For the wanted man . . ._ .) Tron smothers a smile. _Another question_. “I have my goals,” he says, choosing to leave his hands free for now. “Do you know yours?”

            A grimace flashes over Clu’s face, his Disk circling overhead to make its first strike (as the others carry on into the next verse).

            Tron’s knees soften a little so his crossed arms can block the blow easier. Then he shoves a palm against Clu’s chin as he surges up, capturing the arm and twisting it so the Disk is pinned against Clu’s lower back and the Program struggles against him. “Here’s the thing, Clu,” he says, almost conversationally, “I don’t want you dead – never have, really. If I had, you’d’ve died at the Arena twenty years ago, whether Alan agreed with me or not.” He releases the arm and steps back.

            “What _do_ you want, then?”

            “Eh. What everyone wants,” Tron says with a casual shrug. “Security, freedom, and another slice of pizza.”

            Clu – or is it the MCP within Clu? – roars and charges.

            Tron dodges, almost tripping the Program into Jet’s back. He grabs and whirls Clu back towards the center of the platform again, finally pulling and splitting his Disks to keep Clu’s focus on him.

            Clu smirk and pull out a beam katana. _That’ll have to go first_ , Tron notes – then blocks a testing poke from the katana. Clu responds by reeling into a spin-kick to the knee as the katana slices toward Tron’s neck. Tron deflects, nearly severing Clu’s wrist in the process as his knee almost gives in. _Not exactly smart_. Clu’s Disk reaches for his unprotected ribs, and Tron dodges by twisting into a fall on his back. He kicks out, sending Clu stumbling back a few feet, before flipping onto his own feet again.

            They circle each other for a moment, the calm eye of a hurricane, more and more Programs pinging back online as the chorus breaks into the guitar solo. The Twins must sense it, too, the platform suddenly trembling as Jet sweeps out Beck’s legs in the distraction and presses the antivirus codes into his brother’s system. Tron bites back a grin, sending out a _Welcome Back_ ping to all the recovering Programs when Jet nods his way.

            “What’re you _waiting_ for?” Clu asks, exasperated, before charging again. Tron catches the katana in the hollow of his primary Disk, its humming power singeing his knuckles as he twists it from Clu’s grip, letting both bounce away and drop to the ground. Clu tries for a sucker punch with his freed hand, but the angle’s all wrong and it barely bumps Tron’s jaw enough to make his teeth catch against his tongue.

            Then a yelp from above yanks Tron’s attention away – Was that Yori or Ram? – and it’s enough for Clu to sweep his legs from under him. The back of his head thumps hard into the platform, leaving him sickeningly dizzy.

            “Oh, hey. This feels familiar,” Clu muses cockily, laying his Disk aside and straddling Tron’s waist. “Went something like _this_ ,” he says, slamming a fist into Tron’s cheekbone. “And _this_.” Tron’s head snaps the other way under the blow; a scraping sound, and a circle of light shifts in his blurry vision. “And then there was something like _thi_ \- –”

            Tron reaches out and blasts energy into Clu’s unprotected emblem before Clu can slam his Disk into Tron’s chest. A little push, and a stunned Clu flops off of him. “Not so fun when the tables turn, is it,” Tron says, the world swishing side to side as he rolls up onto his shins and waits to steady out again. He swallows and closes his eyes for a moment, not too interested in finding out what regurgitated pizza might look like in Grid-form . . . if it’s still even in his stomach, a-week-and-change later.

            Beck groans from one side; Jarrex and Jarvis are still (surprisingly) going at it on the other. He dares a glance up at the throne ship’s window as the solo ends, just in time to see a Program step into the empty space.

            “Oh, Mama, I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law!” Yori calls out, another white-circuited Program joining her in the opening.

            “Hang-man is comin’ down from the gallows, and I don’t have very long!” Ram warbles out, making Tron grin and wave a greeting their way. (“ _THE JIG IS UP THE NEWS IS OUT THEY’VE FINALLY FOUND ME_ –” the crowd bellows back to them.) Ram’s circuits flutter in response, Yori’s deepening and settling on a pale green as she grins and ushers him back into the ship. _I’ll have to ask her about that later_.

            It’s the only ( ~~stupid, amateur mistake~~ ) reason he doesn’t anticipate the next blow, which knocks him off his feet again. His stomach lurches as he lands on his elbows, gasping to keep it where it belongs. He turns and wrestles with the weight hovering over him, his Disk barely coming up in time to block another strike.

            “Forget it, Tron,” Clu snarls at him. “I know your every move, even the ones you _didn’t_ teach you boys.” He presses Tron into the floor, both whirring Disks threatening to cut into him.

            “Oh, really,” Tron murmurs, then briefly drops his Disk to blast another, stronger, round of energy into Clu’s chest, flinging the other Program off him. He stands and takes his other one back from Jet while Clu tries to recover, but doesn’t resync the pair as he ambles toward his rival. “Perhaps you could help me solve this conundrum, then.” He kneels and pushes a third burst through Clu’s chest to keep him still as the other Program tries to turn away. Then he pulls up and unlocks a section of code on his Rinzler Disk. “Do you know who you are?” he asks, and syncs it into Clu’s dock.

            Clu stiffens, a high-pitched whine escaping his throat before he goes limp, circuitry blurring between golden, red, and white.

            The entire ship rumbles dangerously, like it’s about to fall apart. Everyone, even the last few enemy Programs, stop mid-fight to evaluate as cracks form. Tron stands, wobbles, hands shooting out toward the walls as he reconnects with the Grid, circuitry blazing white with effort. “Easy . . . Steady now,” he breathes, hands curling into gentle fists as he keeps the ship solid while urging it back to land. “Steady . . . we’re almost there.” He notes in passing how his voice is still travelling through the silent crowd, losing track of the detail as the ship scrapes down, settles, and begins to disintegrate around them. “There we go.” His hands lower as he exhales; knees melting under him as he lets the power return to the Grid. His eyes open to see the last couple-dozen Sentries – Programs _meant_ to be Sentries – mirror him and drop to their knees, giving up the fight against the sea of blue and green and white surrounding them –

            The MCP’s enraged howl reverberates all around them – Everyone cringes, clutching at their ears as the sound narrows and intensifies, barreling down on the platform like a physical attack. Even Tron gets blown back, then he has to force his way forward against the wind, bowing over Clu’s unprotected back to provide some modicum of safety.

            Then the wind disappears . . . but not the power. Gasping against the new silence, Tron traces it to – “ . . . Oh, you clever little _bastard_ ,” he breathes, glowing eyes following the jagged trail of MCP red to the trembling form of Jarvis.

            “Sir?” Jarrex asks, shaking and wide-eyed as he rises to hold a beam katana against the Assistant’s throat.

            “Boys, keep an eye on him,” Tron tells the Twins as he stands again, barely nodding Clu’s way as he continues to stare at Jarvis.

            He feels Ram and Yori approach him from either side, creating (re-creating) a new (old) trinity. He waves Jarrex away as Jarvis stills.

            “What’re you seeing, Tron?” Ram asks after a bewildered moment.

            “Why did we never wonder when Clu asked Flynn for help?” Tron tries to explain, still trying to unscramble it himself. He cocks his head. “Why did we never question where Jarvis came from? It’s not like Clu would’ve _asked_ for an assistant.”

            “Flynn the Creator didn’t need help, so why would Clu?” Yori agrees quietly, then shakes her head, just as bewildered. “What’re you getting at?”

            Jarvis opens his eyes and sits up to observe the trio with a growing sneer. “You think you’ve gotten me all figured out, _Tronzler_?” he asks mockingly as he shifts into a crouch. “You think you can just toss a Disk at me and destroy everything I’ve built? I AM **THE GRID**!” He jumps –

            “You are a **_chess Program_**!” Tron rebuts, unaware of the boom in his voice, the others flinching as he grabs Jarvis’ throat mid-leap and slams him to the floor again. “And if you _ever_ figure out **we’re not playing chess** , I might enjoy the Game.” He presses until the Program chokes, then eases off a touch as he shifts his weight to crowd in closer. “In the meantime, I’m gonna do to you what you did to _him_.” He leans further into Jarvis’ face and growls, “I’m going to take you apart slowly. Expose every secret, every quirk, _every question_ , until you have no way to hide again.

            “And then I will destroy you once and for all, **_Master Control_**.” He tightens his grip, and he doesn’t stop when Jarvis chokes; when Jarvis’ circuits pulse with distress; when Jarvis breaks apart voxel by voxel and falls into blackened ashes on the ground, visor tumbling down to clank on top of them.

            He sits back when he’s done, circuits glaring red with rage and Rinzler’s growl rumbling from his chest as he filters and analyzes the coding piece by piece, his eyes closing at some point to minimize the glow while he reviews it.

            It’s horribly simple and surprisingly quick. He can still feel the others staring at him with awe and horror as he takes a deep breath and lets the red seep out of him again.

            “Remind me never to make him mad,” Yori stage-whispers in the silence.

            Tron chuckles, breathless with effort. “You have nothing to fear from me, Yori,” he assures her as he re-connects with the Grid. . . . There. The ship’s circuitry flares as energy floods through, stabilizing the disintegration and pulsing bright enough to make him wince and cover his eyes. “Gonna need a nap before we can get started fixing everything, though,” he mumbles, headache threatening to become a migraine.

            “What about him?” Jet asks, poking at Clu with his foot.

            Beck’s Disk lights up in answer –

            “It’ll be cycles before he reboots,” Tron says, wobbling onto his feet. Ram catches his arm to steady him before he heads back to Clu again. “He’s gonna need a safe space to process –”

            “Wait. You’re letting him _live_?” Ram exclaims. “After all he’s done –”

            “He’s a victim too, Ram,” Tron murmurs, his eyes snagging on the staring crowd before looking to his best friend. “If _we_ deserve a second chance, why doesn’t he?”

            Jarrex shifts on his feet as Ram gapes at him. “I think . . . technically . . . I’m on my third,” he says bashfully.

            “As am I,” Yori agrees softly. Their hands clasp as they share a small, mutual smile.

            Ram splutters, eyes darting back and forth before he throws up his hands and walks off the platform; Beck steps behind him.

            Tron’s jaw clenches as he bites back a sigh, then he starts wrestling Clu’s deadweight up onto his shoulder, trying to ignore the pain erupting in his head.

            Jet kneels and nudges him, silently offering to shoulder the weight instead.

            Tron nods, accepting the offer. Then he stands and watches Jet, Yori, and Jarrex leave with their cargo before approaching the pair again.

            It takes him a minute to figure out where to begin. “It’s taken me over twenty years, a partial merge with my Creator, and a meeting with an uncorrupted Clu just to recognize our true Enemy,” he says, letting his voice carry through the speakers to the Programs beyond. “You haven’t had any of that, and I understand what you’re experiencing right now.” He closes his eyes, his head bowing. “You feel abused. Abandoned. And now betrayed, when I insist on giving a tyrant amnesty instead of retribution; sympathy in place of rage.” He releases a sigh and opens his eyes. “I wish I had the words to explain my thinking. I can only ask that you trust me long enough to see what results from it.” He waits a moment,  glancing to the crowd in the off-chance someone might have a response, then retreats, leaving everyone to their thoughts.

            The crowd parts before him, a now-green-circuited Paige the only one willing to look him in the eye as he passes.

            She nods like he’s royalty, her voice murmuring behind him, “He fights for all of us.”


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fallout: quiet, yet dramatic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends _Renegade_. I hope y'all have enjoyed the ride and will join me for Regeneration. :-)

**Epilogue**

            “What’s it like, being copied?”

            “Weird,” Clu says. “Sometimes invasive. And kinda freeing too, in an odd sort of way.” He shrugs, a little at a loss for how to explain it. “’Course, I’ve had it done several thousand times by now – maybe even a billion or two, depending how you count my ‘offspring.’” His eyes close, making it clear it’s time for sleep mode, not questions. “Depending on how well yours handles the Grid, you’ll probably get pretty old-hat about it, too.”

            “I can’t imagine any version of you being evil,” Steev says a moment later – _mostly_ taking the hint, if the rustling’s any indication. “Can’t imagine a Tron that’s _good_ , either.”

            “‘Good’ and ‘evil’ are very simple concepts,” Clu reminds him. “Real life doesn’t fit into those boxes very often – and when they seem to, that’s the time to be extra wary.”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            Clu hesitates, the impromptu lesson feeling incomplete, but lets the silence reign.

*  *  *  *  *

            It’s Saturday night and visiting hours are technically over. The beeping has almost lulled Sam to sleep when another seizure hits.

            Rage even greater than when he created Bug rises in Sam’s chest, and he pins the face between his palms, snarling, “Stop it – _ENOUGH_!” The body stills, trembling. Sam ignores the glow developing in its eyes as he leans in to whisper in its ear, “You’ve _lost_ , MCP. Tron’s got the Grid, we’ve got Alan, and we’re _all_ on to you. You’ve messed with the wrong Users this time –”

            The chin tilts, lifting to reach Sam’s ear. _“Have I?”_ an alien voice rumbles out of Alan’s throat, chilling Sam to the bone. The body falls limp as nurses rush in, pushing Sam away from the bed. It seizes again, something like laughter bubbling out of it.

            Feeling sick, Sam turns to leave – and stops in his tracks.

            Roy and Quorra are standing in the doorway, pale-faced and terrified. Roy might just be worried about his dying friend – even after all the insanity of the past week, Sam doesn’t know if he’s really come to believe them yet or not – but Quorra’s terror is rigid and trembling, a prey animal before its hunter, her haunted eyes begging him for help.

            He steps in front of her, blocking her view of the room as he grasps her shoulders and leans his forehead against hers. “Stay with me, Q,” he murmurs. “We’ve still got work to do.”

            She blinks. Her jaw firms, her spine straightening again with determination. “We’re _so_ gonna Winchester this bitch,” she declares, making him snort-choke on a mixture of laughter and tears.

            The laughter continues, following them out.

*  *  *  *  *

            He startles awake, sickened and horrified at the images still downloading in his mind. “Oh, God. _Oh, God_ ,” he hears himself babbling as he sits up among the bedclothes. His hands shake under his own gaze as he holds them up. “What have I done?”

            “There’s no God here,” a voice informs him from the foot of the bed. “No Users either, at the moment.” A faint _snick_ of two Disks coming together, and the one Program he yearns to talk to and dreads to see turns to face him. “How’re you feeling?”

            “Why didn’t you kill me?” tumbles out before he can process the question, let alone give an answer.

            Tron’s mouth twitches. His gaze drifts away, taking his question with surprising seriousness as he settles back into his chair. “I’ve met who you were meant to be . . .” he thinks aloud, then shrugs. “Perhaps I’m curious who you might become, after your history here.” He stands up and presses his Disk into its dock with an absent _click_ , adding, “The real question is: Are you ready to try again?”

            Clu blinks up at him, at a loss for how to answer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For anyone who's interested, a little tease of Regeneration:

 

            They land at the Portal without trouble, gathering on their side of the bridge just before the Portal’s light shuts down to reveal a new Program has been uploaded. A ridiculously large Disk shape swings onto the Program’s back before the Program takes its first steps into their world.

            “Greetings, Program!” Tron shouts. The Program’s stride hitches slightly on the bridge – startled, perhaps. “Welcome to the Grid. What’s your name?”

            The Program doesn’t answer – maybe unwilling or uncomfortable with shouting – which is understandable. Seeing Sam’s face as the Program approaches is a pleasant surprise; the disgusted look on it, however, is pretty jarring.

            The Program eyes him warily before glancing over Jet and Ram, then he shoulders Tron aside and approaches Clu instead. “Steev-zero-seven-eighteen reporting for duty, Sir,” he says, saluting as Clu’s eyes bug out. “I am to assist you in eradicating the MCP from the Grid, and possibly help in the updating process should that decision be made.” He falls into parade rest, awaiting instruction.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in Chapter 9 (a.k.a. the Murky Middle of the fic) and dealing with a lot of moving parts, so I'm thinking I'll delay posting to the end of the month or possibly end of next month (depending on how difficult it gets) and post weekly once I start.
> 
> Would any of you with some technological expertise be open to getting a few spoilers about Regeneration? While I'm pretty sure I've settled into the more-fantastical elements of sci-fi, I'd like to make sure I'm not making any ridiculous leaps of logic that could throw anyone from the story. . . .

**Author's Note:**

> What do you think?
> 
> As I'm only in chapter six (of a possible 15-20) at time of posting, I think I'm going to do an every-other-week update. Hopefully I won't drag things out too badly.


End file.
